Where Angel Fears to Tread: Part One of the Tides of Leehrra Saga
by Euphonemes
Summary: Three years after defeating the Leroys, Stitch, his ohana, Gantu, and the rest of the galaxy have found peace. But out of the calm rises a new galactic force, threatening to undo the tenuous peace and throw the galaxy into a bloody conflict. With little time to spare, can Stitch, his ohana, Gantu, and the Federation keep the galaxy whole, or be forced to watch it fall into chaos?
1. Chapter 0 - Savoring the Silence

**_A/N -_** _After one year in silent development, I believe this story is finally ready to be shared. It is not a sequel to In His Own Stars, though it does take place in the same universe. I will be making tweaks along the way, so as you follow me in this journey, please share your feedback with me. Now, please enjoy this new entry:_

 _Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Part One of the Tides of Leehrra Saga_

* * *

 _Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 0_

 _Savoring the Silence_

"Tell me your sins." A rancorous sound in the dim cell. Tired eyes find the figure standing above. Repentant voice failing to speak. "Relinquish your sorrows." Subtle shift in the air. "It will improve you." An empty promise for an empty body.

Binding iron chains clattering. Empty noise fails to drown out the sound. "Save yourself." Tired eyes wander along the concrete floor. The dim bulb burning above too brightly. Hairline fractures scattering among the concrete foundation. "Only through me will you find salvation." A web of cracks.

 _Salvation_. A laugh. The figure cocks its head. _Revulsion_. Chains rattling in disgust. One fracture bifurcating, tracing two paths to the cell door, copper in the weak light.

A sigh. "This is your own doing. You can save yourself—remember that. It is your choice alone that keeps you in here." The shuffling away of an unwanted guest. Savoring the noise. A sliver of white. The door opening, iron in the harsh light. "Please reconsider your obstinacy. No good will come from it." The blackness resuming.

The concrete is cool, inviting. Burning cheeks are grateful. A thumping echoes from far away. Thinking of them. Of one. Cheeks growing hotter. Thumping is closer. Heart thumping. Loud. Fast.

Missing the sun. The warm caresses of dusk. The sand shifting between splayed toes. The others ebullient on the beach. The crystal waves shattering. One serene on the beach. Repentant voice failing to speak.

A sliver of light. Heart thumping. Frightened. Two shadows enter the darkness.

"Well, 'ello there, how ya doin'?" one slurs. Fermented stenches sicken the already fetid air.

"Look at it," the other says. Lazy gaits as they walk about the cell. Different from the one before. Less demure. Less caring. Less careful. One nearly falls on the web of cracks. The other giggles.

"Hey now, shaddup!" it barks. Giggling dying. It crouches. Eyes meeting. "We're gonna take you for a bit o' a trip…howzat sound?" Its turn to chuckle. "C'mon, up ya go!" One chain falls away.

Enough energy for a slash. Claws glinting in sparse light. Sparks as it connects.

"Ow! Damn it! Put it back on th' chain!"

Swinging claws. Following the fermented stenches. More sparks. Tearing. Gripping flesh. One of them yelps.

"C'mon, bind it up in 'em!"

The chain coils. Pinning arms. Flexing, squirming against the metal pressing into flesh. A thump. Falling.

"Hey, nice swing 'ere, guy…aight, looks like we got it good. Pick it up…yeah, you…cuz I'm the super'or officer, tha's why."

The other wrist is free. Squirming resumes. But the chain holds fast. Up into the fetid air. Stronger stenches bellowing. "There we go…now tha's bett'r, yeah?" Door creaking wide open.

Light explodes. White dazzles. Head throbbing. Blinking tired eyes. Moving. Two gray figures holding tightly. They walk, stumble, away from the cell. The door, iron in the harsh light, closes behind them. A soft glow pours over it. "Yeah, it'll be much bett'r where yer goin'."

Disbelief. Struggling blindly. Endlessly. Fruitlessly.

Room after room. Barren. Only the three of them in the hallways. Plodding somewhere. Heart thumping. Louder. Faster. Struggling again. A jab of pain dazzles. Limp body. Tired eyes blink.

Chains slither away. Arms moving. A shimmering curtain. Pounding against it. Pleading with it. Endlessly. Fruitlessly. The two stand away. The air is fresh.

"Man, is this the right thing'a be doin'?" one ventures too late.

"Yeah, these things're dangerous! We can't keep it 'round here anymore. This is fer the good'a errybody…trus' me!"

"Yessir!" Giggling again.

A rancorous sound in the shimmering cell. _Tell me your sins._ On the beach. In the warm caresses of dusk. Thinking of them. _Relinquish your sorrows._ Of one. Heart thumping. Frightened.

A rush.

Solitude. No sound. No giggles. Savoring the silence. Tired eyes wander along the emptiness. The dim star burning above too brightly. The door, copper in the weak light, closing. The blackness resuming.

 _Salvation_. Repentant voice fails to speak. Cheeks growing colder. Heart thumping. Quieter. Slower.

Finding the sun. The cool caresses of an alien dawn. The sands shifting between another's toes far below. The crystal waves shattering far away.

 _Tell me your sins_. For them. _Relinquish your sorrows._ For one.

Solitude in the alien dawn. No sound. No voice. Savoring the silence.

#

* * *

 **For good measure:**

 _Disclaimer : This story is a fictional work. Any references to any persons, living or dead, are coincidental. This fiction is intended for personal consumption. It is not intended for commercial sale or distribution. "Stitch" and all related media © The Walt Disney Company. All other media included in this work © Euphonemes._


	2. Chapter 1 - Descent

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 1_

 _Descent_

The admiral awoke to a frightful alarm in his spacious office crammed with junk. After forty hours of tracking down dozens of agents at the behest of the Grand Councilwoman, Gantu had hoped to find a small bit of comfort in a quick nap. The shrill noise jarred him from that fantasy.

 _Now what!_ His mind still laid on the pink-sanded beaches of Paradiso, holding a galactically-famous beverage prepared from local fruits and Paradisiac liqueur. His mental vacation concluded as the duties of the Admiralty called. Though the five-man Admiralty officially governed the fleets of the United Galactic Federation, the bulk of the work fell to Gantu. He thrived on the pressure, and earned great respect from his peers. But after three Earth years, the job had taxed him heavily, and the effects had begun to show on the admiral.

He had grown a substantial paunch that resisted his rather arduous abdominal program. His once taut and shapely muscles had atrophied from grueling deskwork. The Federation uniform did not fit as flatteringly as it had when he captained his old starship, though his imposing figure remained undiminished—a twenty foot granite block towering over almost every other being in the galaxy. His sagging gray skin had shaded and earned more wrinkles from the incessant stresses. The hefty bags under his robust aquamarine eyes attested to the extreme mental effort required from him, especially so over the past few Turan days.

"Admiral?" his communicator chirped. He fumbled for the gleaming red disk in his pocket that had woken him. He was constantly disheartened that the Federation had never invested in building him a communicator that would fit easily in his elephantine hand, even after three previous communicators had met their demises through mostly accidental crushing.

"Yes, go ahead," he groggily responded.

"Sir, the envoy from the Coalition has arrived. They've already entered the Grand Hall."

"What! I told Internal Security to inform me when they made planetfall!" Weariness fled as the deep bass of his voice took on its authoritative tone. One of the most vociferous against the decision for the Federation Council to meet with the enemy, Gantu had planned to be present for the assuredly farcical summit set to occur today. His previous attempts to persuade the Grand Councilwoman to reconsider had been stymied, but he had believed he could convince her today. _Today would have been different._

"Apologies, Admiral. I hadn't been notified of that. I'll send a squad over to escort you there." The soldier's tone did not fluctuate throughout their exchange. _Not even a hint of fear_ , Gantu puzzled. Even without trying to instill it in his subordinates, their voices would—without fail—waver or crack when they spoke to an upset Gantu.

He swiveled away from his desk and started to stand. "Oh, never mind. I'll make my own way over there now. Just radio ahead to the Council. Have them wait for me."

"Ah, no. No sir, you need the escort. They have Skallyraathi with them…we need to protect you, sir."

Gantu let out an exasperated sigh. He knew he was more than capable of handling himself, even against a hulking Skallyraath and its expensive toy armor. But the escort was one of many of the Turan Bureau of Internal Security's insane protocol changes over the past few months. While Gantu was often a strong supporter for increased militarization, the idea was not as enticing when it was occurring outside his office door. Their mucking about had contributed in large part to his current exhaustion.

"Yes, fine. Send them to my office immediately."

"Of course, Admiral. They'll arrive shortly." The line died at the soldier's end. _Fearless and rude._ Gantu pocketed the communicator and turned back to his desk.

A dozen holographic windows floated in front of his deskbound computer. Financial projections for the Armada consumed most of the screens. As member worlds scattered throughout the various sectors of the galaxy had fluctuated in their support for the Federation, their tribute had fluctuated, too. Waging a cold war with the disgustingly wealthy Coalition had hastily drained the Federation's treasury. The Council had tried to enact more creative methods for raising funds and drumming up interest for Federation memberships and their requisite dues, but Gantu had witnessed all such measures meet ignominious ends. With hope of replenishment effectively torpedoed, stopping the Coalition onslaught was quickly looking to become an impossibility. _It hasn't been this bad since The Great Shock_ , he woefully opined.

A new report flitted into the swarm, claiming three mutinies had been committed aboard several frigates: the _UGF Covach,_ the _UGF Brasmathi_ , and the _UGF_ _Thant'rha_. Mutiny aboard Federation ships had recently become a popular pastime. Gantu would need to dispatch peacekeeping forces to resolve the situations, but the Armada's liquidity shortfall limited his options. Several weeks before, a discussion on budgetary concerns with the Grand Councilwoman broke down into begging her to scrape together enough cash to pay back-wages for Federation servicemen.

"It's been three Turan months since any enlisted man has received a paycheck! And the officers aren't far behind! They'll turn on us if we don't act now!" Gantu pleaded with his commander. Though the Council held the official vote, her opinions had an unusual tendency to become Council edicts. Urgency, he hoped, would sway her to action.

Her azure skin creased. Lips puckered in austere thought. Obsidian jewels, annealed by leadership during unfathomably difficult circumstances, smoldered. The jet black dress flowed as she slowly paced about the Council dais overlooking the Grand Hall. Her striking elegance showed hints of fading, though Gantu still respectfully admired her tall form and taller personality.

"Their payment is not our primary concern," she decreed in a commanding contralto tinged with wisps of world-weariness. "If they are loyal to the Federation, then they will continue their service."

"Loyalty won't pay their bills back home, Grand Councilwoman. The Coalition would most certainly try to take advantage of those who need the money, which will soon be all of them."

"Admiral, I appreciate you wanting to care for our soldiers. But there is simply nothing to give them."

He clenched gigantic fists. "Surely there's _something_ we can—"

Her gracile arm raised to stop him. "No, Admiral. Only our admiration for their dedicated service. That is all we can offer. And it must be enough."

Gantu trusted the Councilwoman, but lacked an equivalent faith in her idealism. He skimmed the reports of the mutinous sailors that he could not neutralize, and the sweet taste of vindication arrived with an aftertaste of bitter impotence. While mulling over potential resolutions to the predicament—one of many now piling up on his console—he pulled up a half-typed message. _I should finish this._ Gantu despised writing messages in general, but after reviewing the morbid financials, he was thankful for a distraction.

He connected to the ultra-priority comms channel, reserved for senior military members and the Council. It was heavily secured, encrypted with the latest in quantum cryptographic technology. The message's recipient would have no issue decoding it. _Anyone else… I hope they have a few lifetimes to burn._ A few seconds passed before his console established a connection. The message interface re-materialized, and he began the tedious process of typing out the words.

"Grr… I hate writing in Tantalog," he vocalized his annoyance. The Federation's capital world of Turo and its information systems were based on the Tantalog language. While most comms channels allowed for multiple language input, the ultra-priority channel only allowed Tantalog, despite his strenuous assertions that that was an idiotic decision. He considered himself an adequate Tantalog speaker, but his writing skills—even after several lengthy seminars—left much to be desired.

Nearly complete with his note, his dysrhythmic typing clacking throughout his office, someone tripped one of the proximity sensors positioned several yards from the door. As the enemies of the Federation had multiplied, Gantu had installed several clandestine security measures near his most-frequented spots on Turo. Some had called him paranoid for it—he preferred "prepared". A warning window overlaid the message.

 _The guards must be close. I'd better get ready. This message can wait._ After dismissing the warning window, he saved his message and swiped it away. _Don't want to leave that out in the open_ , he admonished _._

 _If they're so worried for my safety, I should bring a weapon._ He rose from his chair and shuffled over to his weapons locker in the far corner of the room. Through the windows that lined the outer wall of his office, he could spot scout ships and small fighters resting in the docking arena. A mile-across cylinder that stretched up for another half-mile, the arena could hold the largest ships in the Federation's fleet, and perform shipyard maintenance if the orbital platforms were busy or broken. Though it was ludicrous, Gantu would on occasion picture himself falling out of those windows into the chasm below. The usual shudder vibrated through his spine.

Throwing open the locker doors, he scanned his arsenal. One caught his eye and brought a smile to his face. "Yeah, I should bring a weapon…a big weapon _._ " He reached in and, as if cradling a newborn, took out his VARDIS-PBR Mk. V rifle. He gently turned the weapon over in his hands, admiring every carefully designed component. The Variable Distance Plasma Bolt Rifle, Mark V, had been a gift from his crew when he relinquished his starship commission to join the Admiralty. The specifications were ingrained in his memory.

Its gleaming chrome body contained a parallel fusion cell array that would constantly generate ammunition. An intense magnetic bubble encapsulated a neon green plasma discharge within the chamber, which the weapon released as a bolt traveling at nine times the Turan speed of sound. The combination of kinetic energy from the slug and ungodly heat from the plasma would vaporize most targets. Embedded microscale plasma devices, comprised of many minuscule plasma cavities, consumed the massive electromagnetic discharges that would otherwise electrocute weapon components and hapless soldiers. Inertial dampeners absorbed most of the recoil energy, but even then, at nearly three feet long and weighing about a healthy fifty pounds, the bucking rifle filled most soldiers with enough apprehension to wisely avoid it. Gantu was proud to be rated an Expert Marksman on the Mark V.

He had just slung his rifle over his back and secured a secondary weapon—a lowly yellow-painted plasma blaster—into a hip holster when he heard his office door slide open. He swiveled his head back and saw four Turan guards, standing at most a quarter of his height, clad in full-body white armor and sporting basic laser rifles. Gantu eyed the set of elongated black barrels, mulling the misnomer of "laser"—Federation weapons were plasma-based, but some generated fields upon activation that were uncannily similar to weaponized lasers, and so were errantly labelled as "laser weapons". The Federation had once briefly employed laser technology in offensive capacities, but after a particularly nasty overheating incident involving a grumpy Council member's personal vessel, true lasers were scrapped. Upon remembering the specific details of that incident, Gantu let out a small chuckle, which set the guards astir.

He turned toward his escorts as he finished his laugh. "Hello, gentlemen. Give me just a moment, and I'll be ready to follow you out—"

The first laser barrage sent sparks flying right above his head. The second erupted inches from his feet.

Ducking behind his locker, he raised his weapon and zeroed in on the squad at the door. He switched off his safety and fired for fifteen seconds on fully automatic. Gantu had no trouble directing the green bolts pouring from the barrel. White suits leapt away from the incendiary river barreling toward them.

His opening salvo kicked up a fog of vaporized metal and particulates. Using the momentary smokescreen to his advantage, he rolled his body into cover behind a sturdy support beam along an interior wall and laid down bursts of suppressive fire. Though the weapon built up a tremendous amount of heat, the microscale plasma devices kept the charge at bay, and the inertial dampeners kept his arms from tiring. _I can do this all day,_ he smirked.

The gun's anechoic internal chamber contained the rapports, a design decision which his ears praised. Out of the miasma, he was able to hear shouting. " _Bliznak!_ We need support! He was ready for us! We need Skallyraathi! Move back… _goocha,_ back up! Now!"

Gantu could take one Skallyraath easily. _But a squad? A platoon?_

He needed to finish that message. _He must know what's happening._

Gantu made his run from cover and reached his desk. He tapped his computer screen to reinitialize the messaging program.

 _Link Error. Please check connection._

 _They cut my line!_ He geared up to simultaneously unleash both a healthy string of profanities at his machine and plasma bolts at his foes. The distinct clatter of a concussion grenade hitting his office floor stopped him. "Hmm, good choice," he commended.

He had enough time to protect his face from the blast and shrapnel before the concussive wave overcame him. Whoever had packed the grenade, however, had done so improperly. The blast lifted him off the ground and shoved him into the exterior window overlooking the docking arena. As he smacked into the pane, the words of the maintenance man who introduced him to the room came to mind.

Gantu had just accepted his posting as an admiral—a surprise commission for him considering his earlier work with Hamsterviel and his cloned army of Abominations—and had been whisked away to his brand new office on Turo. His first time without a ship to command since before the Armada Debacle, he had been suffering from a painful homesickness as he had been ushered about Turo. It struck especially hard as he crossed the threshold into his cramped office, with a view overlooking hundreds of space-worthy vessels.

The maintenance man for the area, a short yet exquisitely proportioned multicolored creature, reminded Gantu of a sandpiper he had observed on a Kaua`i beach after another day wasted in attempting to capture the Abomination and its kin. Listening to him speak gave rest to Gantu's unease. The man—whose name now escaped Gantu—had motioned with a wing toward the windows, blathering on about that view, when he stated rather plainly, "Tell you what, Admiral. This pane is made from some of the hardest transparent material we got. I'll bet ya a hundred interstellar credits that, even though it's holdin' back the fury of those ships' engines in the docking bay, this window pane will never crack while you're in this office. You give me a call if it does, and I'll gladly pay ya." Gantu had agreed to the bet, though the reason why he did had been lost to time. The maintenance man walked out of the office that day mumbling something about "a sucker's deal".

 _If I survive this, I'll have to give him a call and get my hundred._

Shattered glass followed him on his descent toward the bottom of the docking arena.

#


	3. Chapter 2 - Shattered Serenity

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 2_

 _Shattered Serenity_

"Hey champ, get up. It's almost dinnertime!"

Reuben's voice possessed an inexplicable ability to hound its way into Stitch's head. He stirred from his peaceful basking session on the beach. Wide eyes blinked open to a darkening sky.

Stitch sat up and dusted off the windblown sand that had accumulated on him. His shades of blue blended well with an evening sky and ocean. He noticed that his state of relaxation had caused him to slip out of his disguise, with antennae, back spines, and an extra set of arms laying exposed. He quickly reverted to his typical and—as his companions expressed, more pleasant—look, which he had first adopted after his rather ostentatious landing on Earth a lifetime ago.

Two long pink-lined ears each sported a rounded nick and waggled over his head with the breeze. A tuft of bedraggled fur in between them jostled as he sloughed off a thin layer of wet sand. Two solid black eyes absorbed the beach around him and gleamed in the sunset in a way that denuded the occasional mischief their owner would find.

He inhaled the salty sea air through his prominent and dark bulbous nose, keeping his thin lips pursed as he breathed deeply—his mouthful of knife-edged teeth could frighten even the hardiest human. The pale sky blue fur that encircled his eyes also covered his chest, which donned its own unruly patch of fur. Sapphire covered most of the remainder of his body save for a splotchy patch of midnight running down the length of his back. He had a bit of a belly that enshrouded his physically tuned body.

He waved his visible set of arms, flexing the three fingers and the thumb-like appendage on each paw, paying heed to the razor-sharp claws capping each digit. His stubby legs bowed slightly at the knee, contributing to the slight waddle in his walk that vanished in his sprint. Four bluntly clawed toes on padded feet wiggled in the air as he shook off the sandy vestiges of a luxurious afternoon. He smacked the last few grains off his balled poof tail.

One thin back spine had snuck out of place, and he rapidly rectified the error. His cousins, the other products of the stupendously illegal genetic experimentation program that created him, had taken far fewer measures to hide from the island's human inhabitants when they had been let loose on Kaua`i. In the time he had spent stopping them from running amok and then finding them new purposes to fulfill on the island, Stitch had exercised the utmost caution in ensconcing his true form. It still unnerved him to display even a part of it to humans, even though most everyone seemed rather oblivious to his presence. He had learned to love his incognito look, which Lilo announced to passers-by as a "dog"—an apt description, in his opinion.

Stitch's alarm clock, even while toting his picnic basket and the remnants of his eponymous sandwich within, had gotten a ten-step head start. Reuben's goldenrod coat popped against the magenta aura of the fleeting Kaua`i sun. His shape mimicked Stitch's own—or Stitch mimicked Reuben's, who technically preceded him in their order of creation, though Stitch preferred not to dwell on that fact.

Paler fur covered Reuben's chest and markedly larger gut, a gift from the sandwiches he so adored. Reuben bore a more complex tuft of fur, filled out by three thick cylindrical clumps capped in sienna fur atop his head. His two slimmer ears pointed back and to the ground, but bobbed springily with each step down the beach. A cherry red nose glistened with the fine layer of perspiration trapped on its surface.

Removed from the warm and comforting hug of Hawaiian sand, he hurried to Reuben. Stitch knew better than to get between his cousin and his dinner.

"Where's Angel?" Stitch queried.

"Oh, still on her, are we?" jabbed Reuben. "Y'know, you should move on, find yourself some other nice alien girl. Or maybe someone more, ah, local."

Stitch shot him irritation. "We should find her. All I'm saying."

Reuben countered with an indignant shrug. "Alright, I gotcha. We'll walk the beach 'n' see if we can spot her. But hey, my point still stands, cuz. Ya got some options. Obsession with yer cousin can't be healthy, champ."

" _Meega_ not obsessed!"

"And I see yer English lessons aren't stickin', eh?"

Annoyance flooded Stitch's face, along with embarrassment at the teacher reproving the student. "Yes, they are," he painstakingly enunciated using the full might of his supercomputer brain.

"Sure they are…as long as we ain't talkin' 'bout her. Face it, man, you're obsessed with yer cousin."

" _Naga_."

 _I am not obsessed_. As he told himself almost daily, he just really liked her company. And her pink fur as it rustled in the breeze. And her gorgeous dark eyes that would reflect the moonlight on a Kaua`i beach so elegantly. And her two coils of fur that swooped gracefully from her head down her back, amid two exquisitely sculpted ears that he longed to whisper into at night.

"…and she not _really_ Stitch's cousin …" he quietly added. They had similar body shapes, though Stitch thought her form to be far more elegant and graceful than his own blue self. With the similarities had come concern on the outcome of their potential pairing. Fortunately, his creator had once confided in him that sufficient genetic differentiation existed, to Stitch's thankful relief. "Genes are being tricky bits," Jumba had opined as Stitch sat on his haunches, begging for an answer, "but she is being good match for you, Six-Two-Six."

"Uh huh, right. Hey, whatever floats your boat, bud. You two are compatible, I'll give ya that. But ya may need to work on yer sweet talkin' if you're gonna go back to that."

Ever since Stitch had retrieved Angel from the clutches of some unsavory characters and incorporated her into his family, her cute infatuation with Stitch had gone unrequited. Not purposefully, he had noted in hindsight. When he thought about her, confusion sprang up concerning what to say to her and what to do about his feelings. Rather than face discomfort, he chose distraction. Always busy with helping around the house, patrolling the town, and caring for his panoply of cousins, Stitch was able to ignore her attempts to make him her _boojiboo_. Eventually, he smartened up and finally found the voice to express his desire for the _boojiboo_ title. By the time that happened, her spurned heart had shut him out.

 _But that might change_ , hope whispered to him.

"Yep, you've gotta a lotta work to do on _that_ front, my man," Reuben helpfully reminded. Lost in rumination, Stitch contended to shuffling along in crestfallen silence with Reuben as they combed the beach for Angel.

They strolled along, bordered by ocean and town. The scent of salty sea air wafted on the gentle breeze. Minuscule waves calmly lapped at their feet, washing away the footprints they left behind in the saturated sand. From afar came the echoes of seagull squawks. The sun continued its descent toward the rippling horizon.

"I could get used to this planet. It's a little, ah, outta the loop'a galactic affairs and whatnot, but y'know, maybe that's a good thing." Stitch examined his cousin in the sunlight rebounding from the water's edge. As part of a deal with the United Galactic Federation, Stitch was to remain on Earth in a somewhat amicable exile from the galactic community. Barring one incredibly brief stint with the Galactic Armada, he had complied with the exile, and it had proven to be the best option for all involved.

When Gantu returned to active duty with the Federation nearly three years ago, Reuben chose to remain on Earth, despite his lack of an explicitly noted exilic requirement—though Stitch had always expected that exile had been implicitly imposed upon Reuben, Angel and the rest of the genetic experiments. No matter why he chose Earth, "getting used to it" had invariably become a catchphrase of Reuben's, his tired profession of the shortcomings of his residency on a galactically backwater planet. And no matter what he said, Stitch believed that Reuben had long ago acclimated to the slower and more deliberate pace of life.

Stitch had at first been wary of Reuben's decision and of Reuben himself. Gantu's time on Earth consisted of endless pursuits of Stitch and his cousins in service to a rather nasty fellow with nebulous yet sinister plans for the Experiments. Reuben had teamed with then-Captain Gantu to assist in capturing his brethren. When Reuben chose to walk away from his place as galley officer aboard Gantu's vessel, and leave the operation behind, Stitch tried to suss out the ploy that he was sure was present. Though the assistance he provided Gantu could laughably be described as minimal, and his words sounded sincere, Reuben's willingness to switch allegiances worried Stitch.

In the intervening years, he believed that Reuben had wholeheartedly committed to joining Stitch's family—his ` _ohana_. While Stitch's _de jure_ owner, Lilo, invested more time in schoolwork, hula dancing, and other activities pertinent to a girl growing up, Stitch and Reuben ended up sharing much of their leisure time. Whether they strolled through the town, lounged on the beach, practiced English, checked in on their kin, or nestled into the soft worn-in spots on the couch and watched television, they did it together. They would reminisce on old adventures, plan for new ones, or talk about the most inane things imaginable from sunup to sundown and all through the humid island nights. Stitch still enjoyed his time with Lilo, and would always consider her the best of friends, but he was delightedly discovering he had more in common with Reuben than he had first expected.

Stitch broke his silence. "Stitch like it here too." He immediately regretted it.

"Does Stitch like it too?" Reuben jabbed at a sore spot. Stitch's progress toward fluency in English stumbled on pronouns, especially "I". His Earth-given name, "Stitch", snuck in too often—though, thankfully, he avoided identifying himself as "Experiment Six-Two-Six", as some in the galaxy would say with an unpleasant sneer.

"Yes, _meega_ know—" An awkward pause led a sigh of frustration at his inclusion of the Tantalog pronoun that also snuck in too often. "Aaah damn!"

"Well, at least ya can nail those ones," Reuben kindly noted. Stitch preferred his collection of Tantalog curses— _bliznak,_ c _hoota_ , and the like were far more palatable.

He warmed up for another go. "Okay. Yes… _I_ know _I_ made a mistake. Aha!" He let out a small cheer.

Reuben got a chuckle out of it.

They had walked for ten or fifteen minutes without a glimpse of Angel. Worry dawned as the sun set. An alien on a beach filled with humans should have stood out fairly well, though the unusually high number of people frolicking about could easily hide her. A rash of inclement weather the week before had kept the townsfolk and the plentiful and eager tourists cooped up in homes, stores, and hotels. Clear skies blessed the day, and the islanders—Stitch included—cured their cabin fever with surf and sand.

They covered another quarter mile of beach before he could no longer contain it. "We should see her by now."

"Ah, stop worryin', will ya?" Reuben dismissed. "She's probably got her own patch of sand she don't wanna give up. Besides, she older'n both'a us…uh, don't tell her I said that. What I _meant_ was that she can handle herself. And you 'n' I _both_ know that."

Forgiving the gaffe, Stitch found himself in a rare moment of total agreement with Reuben.

Stitch looked up toward the horizon to gauge the sun's descent. The glowing red orb started to dip below the sea in its final hour of light. Yet the ground seemed to be darkening much faster. His pace quickened.

"Hey, who's turnin' out the lights?" chided Reuben.

 _It's not in my head, then._ Stitch pointed his gaze up from the beach. A small black silhouette pressed against an indigo sky—a slender cylinder, tapering at the ends. The sunlight's angled rays warped the object's shadow into a specter that crept along the sandy fringes of the island.

Another appeared—a triangle with jagged edges. It flew lower to the ground and moved much faster than the cylinder, passing overhead in seconds.

And another. And another. More shapes, more sizes. Soon there were a dozen dark occlusions in the clear twilit sky.

Stitch peered down at the encroaching umbrae. His cousin recognized a portent when he saw one.

"Uh, cuz, I think it may be time we move our asses a little faster, yeah?"

" _Ih."_

Stitch and Reuben lowered their heads to the beach and quickly weaved through thickening throngs of beachgoers who were all transfixed on the spectacle in the sky. Above, Stitch could peek at gleaming rubies materializing in the silhouettes' centers. Each one momentarily flared, then winked out. Stitch's finely-tuned ears detected the faintest buzz concomitant with each dimming.

A sickening stillness pervaded the coastal air. Seagulls ceased their calls. Beachgoers held their breaths. Ocean stalled its waves. Stitch and Reuben galloped.

Bursts of dazzling red all around. The silence detonated with cracks of ionized air that cleaved the atmosphere. The water exploded. Deafening shrieks reverberated across the island.

The island's citizens began fleeing in cacophonous horror, scrambling toward the perceived safety of town. The narrow roadways bottlenecked the panicked flow of people. The crowd swelled as terrified islanders squirmed away from the incoming onslaught. A monsoon of planet-grade bolts jettisoned dust and debris into the air and vaporized any unfortunate soul caught in or near their impact points. A low fog clung to the beach as plasmatic blood-red shells pummeled the beautiful sand and the crystalline shallow waters. The human stampede punched through the funnel and spilled incoherently into the town, racing toward buildings, overhangs, anything that would ostensibly provide shelter.

Despite their best efforts, Stitch and Reuben could not escape the fleeing mass. In the collective run for safety, hundreds of mortified beachgoers jostled and bumped the cousins. A bolt struck the ground several yards ahead of them. A dozen people evaporated. Those behind them flowed around the smoldering crater, taking Reuben along a current toward town while Stitch was trapped in a riptide running parallel to the beach. Stitch tried to shout out to Reuben, but the weapons' rapports and the people's screams drowned his attempts.

Some of the silhouettes abandoned their ruby rays of ultra-high-energy plasma and opted for a striking neon green that coruscated as if a gigantic camera were snapping photographs of the horrendous scene below. Balls of green streaked through the sky and issued thunderclaps of seared air in their wakes. The orbs seemingly halted several hundred feet above the town before violently expanding into radiating green waves. Stitch paid deference to the awesome power of the orbital plasma bomb by ducking with each explosion.

Those in the town were without hope. Buildings nearest to the epicenters vaporized or melted instantly into pools of slag. Farther away, structures fractured and splintered, demolished by the concussive shockwaves chasing the plasma. The superheated air incinerated everything that remained. Flashpoint-induced fires spontaneously erupted throughout the remnants of their town.

Stitch furiously swam against the charging crowd to get back to Reuben, but in seconds, he had lost sight of his cousin. As he nudged through the flow, he exercised the utmost care in avoiding the eruptions of heat and dust around him. One gift from the genetic experimentation that created him included an inherent invulnerability to most weapons of war. _Bulletproof, fireproof_ …. He did not wish to test those limits today.

The throngs thinned when he reached a nearby dune. As he ascended, a streak of red crashed into the beach a yard ahead and dug a yawning crater. The concussion sent sand, rock, and Stitch flying through the air and into the side of a tin-roofed beach shack perched on the dune's edge. He rebounded off the wall and collapsed onto the ground. The shack followed his example.

Lying on the sand and half-buried in rubble, Stitch tried to gather himself. Crimson bolts streaked from on high, crashing into ocean, beach, and building. Neon green flashes illuminated the town's liquefying skyline. The pungent smell of ozonized air, the discordant thunderclaps of weaponry, and the screams, rapidly diminishing.

The siege on his enervated senses proved too great.

Before he slipped into unconsciousness, a wave, like the ones he had enjoyed minutes before, lapped at the edge of his mind.

 _My_ ` _ohana_.

#


	4. Chapter 3 - A Strong Leg

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 3_

 _A Strong Leg_

"Hmph…" Gantu mumbled as his eyes drearily fell open.

He lay at the bottom of the docking arena. The floor's padding that normally cushioned the landings of fighters had softened the blow to his gigantic frame. Dormant fighters and scout vessels reposed on the tarmacs. The eerie silence pervading the cavernous docking arena encouraged Gantu to move.

Thankfully, his legs responded when called to action, albeit more slowly than he preferred. A dull ache invaded every muscle, tendon, and ligament. Rolling onto his side, he pushed up to get back on his feet. He collapsed from the exertion onto the gunmetal gray floor of the arena. His sigh of palpable frustration reverberated along the curved wall.

 _Okay, let's try it again._

Sheer willpower overcame his body's pleas for mercy, and he was standing. His eyes ventured upward. The ragged hole where a window once was seemed closer than it should be, yet it was still a several-dozen-foot fall to the deck that would have seriously injured or killed smaller beings. He brought his gaze to his side.

The VARDIS-PBR Mk. V rifle, a gift from his crew, laid across the deck, shattered like the window. A nearly perfectly round hole had been eaten into the floor, the mark of plasma escaping its carefully controlled housing. _Lucky it didn't pinch_ , Gantu remarked as thoughts of terrifying electrical arcs of plasma danced in his head. The lengthy barrel had snapped in two like the twigs he used to break underfoot for fun after a long day on Kaua`i. Gantu bent to try and retrieve a piece, but a sharp pain stabbed at his spine. He gritted his teeth and worked to massage it out of his back while he silently eulogized his favorite weapon.

After he worked out the knot as best he could, he surveyed the platform. Fighter and scout ships sat impotently in rows, their bright paintjobs lustrous against the gray docking arena walls. He admired their gentle curves and ostentatious flanges—unnecessary but aesthetically pleasing design choices. Sharp edges and blocky configurations had been a hallmark of earlier prototype ships, and while a few manufacturers stayed true to the earlier models, Gantu happily approved of the genuinely beautiful ships that the Federation ordered.

At the end of one row of these gorgeous vessels, he spotted a pink mass slumped under an overhang. He stepped toward it, and promptly fell on his face. Angry eyes stared down his target. He got to his feet again, wobbling slightly as he found his balance. Pain manifested in his left leg — a sprain in some ligament, though the radiating soreness hid the epicenter. His first day in basic training at Fort H'thalya on Grum'mohn offered the best analog, of a cocksure whelp slogging through ten miles of waist-deep muck until bruised, battered, and dirtied legs quit one hundred feet from his barracks. He reconciled with shuffling and wincing along the expansive deck until he reached the target.

He scrunched his face as he knelt down and touched the pink blob. The prehensile trunk of Admiral Toobihya curled into a lifeless face. Rugged pink eyelids severed the intense gaze of the fiery gray orbs of the Admiralty's first appointed member. His musky breath that had proclaimed Gantu's competency in his bid for the Admiralty had expired through lips slouching in death. Rifle burns tore through the uniform's fabric and seared his corpulent belly that shook with sincere laughter during after-hours jaunts to Turo's nightlife establishments. Fractured hooved limbs lay askew as testament to the unceremonious disposal of his corpse.

Anguish burned in the pit of Gantu's stomach. _When he needed it…they cut my line._ He yearned to scream. To grieve. Above, the clattering of armored guards rushing about on catwalks sent Gantu crouching under the overhang of the arena's control room. He stifled his roar of rage with clenched fists, and protected the small advantage granted to him by surviving an impossible fall. After studying the room again, he settled on a small entryway several hundred feet away, nestled into the side of the docking arena. He laid a respectful palm on his comrade before stumbling along the wall toward the door.

The rows of ships stood apathetic to his progress, irked by their early decommission due to insufficient operating funds. He again ogled the fine curves and delicate yet formidable power of the vessels. "But your beauty came at a premium," he quietly told them. With the Federation's coffers nearly depleted, the ships' next-gen plasma cannons would never slake their thirst for combat in the name of the United Galactic Federation. The Coalition possessed plenty of credits to please the ships, and if there were any Federation pilots who were willing to abandon their posts and their oaths, the Coalition could add them to their own daunting fleets. Gantu could only hope a few of the ships would stay loyal to his beloved Federation.

The doorway he finally reached reminded him that his abnormally large height would always prove problematic whenever he interacted with galactic society. Most other beings were content with building doorways that offered the bare minimum in clearance. Most other beings in the Federation were also fairly close in height and size. Gantu had learned to adapt—though not usually without some coercion from bumps to his head or scrapes to his arms delivered by comparatively squat door frames.

He led with his strong leg, squirmed through the door, and then yanked his trailing and aching leg through the portal. On the other side, the corridor grew wide and tall, easily accommodating his larger stature. A barely audible cheer escaped his lips in revelry of his small but crucial victory.

The throbs and jolts in his leg were taxing his strength as he continued his incursion, draining the wits he needed to maintain. Gantu had never before ventured into the hallway ahead, which resembled deep and starless space. And under normal circumstances, he would have no predilection to wander into such unknowns. Underestimating unknowns had been a common error of Gantu's—and a few unknowns on a blue backwater bog had nearly cost him everything. The Admiralty had beaten that pattern of thought into oblivion, and careful consideration and temperate responses had become his norm. In the bureaucratic and diplomatic world of the Admiralty, where a single miscue could spark an interstellar conflict, eliminating unknowns was the only chance for success.

Facing down this unknown, truly clueless to the length of the journey and its destination, Gantu abnegated. He set off down the dark path. He winced as his leg protested every other step.

Fortunately, the irate leg would gain a reprieve sooner than Gantu had expected. He did not need to travel far before the arc lamps blazing outside of the corridor blinded him.

Disorientation manipulated his arms in furious grasps at dry air. The sterile odor of the room clung to his nostrils and desiccated his tongue. Mysterious machinery hummed and gently vibrated the wall that Gantu's hand slapped in an effort to regain his senses.

A cloistered room, stark white under powerful lights, began to take form. He hammered the wall with an open palm and pondered the unfamiliar echo rebounding through empty space. _A room on Turo I don't know about?_ In Gantu's mind, to best serve Turo and its people, he had needed to grind through every map and architectural drawing of the structures on the planet. If this room existed, he should have known about it.

His aquamarine eyes settled on an obsidian console occupying the center of the room. He limped across the cool tiled floor and latched onto it with both hands to steady himself. It whirred to life. A full-color holographic display projected an image a few inches from the black box.

As he read the words that scrawled along the screen, recognition dawned.

 _Main Comms Relay_

" _Bliznak,_ " he mumbled at his memory lapse while lightly slapping his cheek. _Need to focus now._

The console was connected to the various information systems throughout Turo. Internal Security used these terminals to track selected parties planet-side and relay findings in real-time through the faster-than-light communication network. The need for the surveillance was one of the exceptionally few points upon which he and Internal Security agreed.

 _Let's try a message_. He selected the ultra-priority channel.

 _System Error. FTL channels not responding._

"Naturally." His experience with technology told him to beat the machine into submission. Fortunately for the machine, he lacked the energy to enact a good walloping. _No way to contact anyone off-world… but I wonder if short-wave works_.

He set up his coded short-wave radio burst. Federation ships could decode the tag specially assigned to Admiral Gantu to confirm his identity, but the channel itself was open, meaning that he also ran the risk of leading anyone else right to him. _But_ w _hat the hell else am I going to do?_ The _Open Channel_ button flashed on the display. He pressed it, and fired his long shot.

"Admiral Gantu, transmitting in the blind. Request response from any UGF ship in vicinity of Council Headquarters on Turo. Require extraction from hostile territory."

Static responded. Agonizing seconds ticked by. He had placed a serious bet with one transmission. And he decided to double down. His finger moved toward the _Open Channel_ button.

"Admiral?" the reply cut through the static. He stared at the console. "Admiral, this is _UGF Adesa_. We acknowledge your transmission. We have your current location. Dispatching shuttle for _EXFIL_. _LZ_ Docking Bay _Huzziuh_. Shuttle is one minute out."

Upon hearing the _Adesa_ 's call-sign, a frisson of giddiness passed through every bone in his body.

"Copy, _Adesa_. It's damn good to hear from you." Gantu worked to keep his professional tone, but the relief was hard to hide.

"You too, sir. You'd better get moving. _Adesa_ out."

Retaliatory forces had not poured through the corridor once he finished his message, but he nevertheless requisitioned Internal Security's lifesign scanner. "I'm sure they won't mind," he assured no one in particular.

He scanned the near vicinity and Docking Bay _Huzziuh_. The machine clicked and whirred as the scan executed, and then returned a message with accompanying beeps.

 _Scan complete. No lifeforms detected._

He let out a small sigh, flushing out exhaustion and numbing the dull throb in his leg. He pushed his injured body away from the console, and stumbled to the hatch covering the tunnel to Docking Bay _Huzziuh_. A most annoying stiffness had settled into his limb. _Almost out_ , he coaxed the stubborn appendage. _Then you can rest easy. Almost out._ He unsealed the hatch and grabbed the lip of the tunnel.

Gantu froze. In his mind, he watched his office console scroll the message of mutiny. Turan guards fired on him with Federation rifles. An ugly tentacle of distrust wrapped around his legs.

 _Is the_ Adesa _compromised?_

His battle-hardened mind worried, but his weary body did not care to fret. Disobeying the command to halt issued by his brain, arms and legs pushed and rolled through the tunnel and into _Huzziuh_ , a much cozier landing area than the massive arena, though its complement of dozens of individually-piloted starfighters still impressed. A lone shuttle levitated over the center of the bay.

The craft shakily hovered in the manner of a rookie pilot on his first virtual trainer lesson at academy. The distrustful tentacle squeezed, bringing him to the floor to contemplate. _Can I trust them? Will they turn me over to the Coalition? Will they fight with me for what I love?_ Questions mired him, but ignorant arms dragged his frame toward salvation. The craft descended smoothly and swung open its doors, and Gantu gratefully recanted his worries on the pilot's competency as he pulled himself into the ship.

On board and off Turo, his realistic fear of betrayal clashed with the biological imperative for rest. Worry nagged as he strapped into one of the bucket seats that lined the interior. Fears flurried as eyelids grew heavy. In the end, biology won out.

#


	5. Chapter 4 - Pancakes and Ashes

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 4_

 _Pancakes and Ashes_

"Stitch, get up! It's time for breakfast!"

Lilo's voice fluttered as the smell of fresh buttermilk pancakes caressed his nose. He stirred under a ray of sunlight that pierced through translucent window coverings, illuminating the room in the supple golden glow of early morning. Stitch had opted for the teak floor of the living room last night, savoring the feel of the smooth boards on his chest. He reached out and grabbed the edge of the couch with the worn indentations in the cushions perfectly poised for television viewing. He patted the tired yet jovial furniture, and briefly admired his reflection in the curved glass screen of the equally antiquated television set. He saw several hairs shift in a tickling breeze. The front door, left ajar by a forgetful family member, beckoned, and he poked his head out to taste the salty wind.

The verdant wooden paneling of the pastoral house mirrored the lush rainforest flora, much the same way as the red roof complemented the early morning sky. The architecturally simple shapes used in its construction blended effortlessly with the long and sloping hill atop which the house rested, the only aberration being the domed observation tower, capped with the room he shared with Lilo, rising beyond the house's top floor. Stilts supported half of the house and carved out a garage that excelled as a hideaway from the menial chores bestowed by Nani. Though they were empty this morning, rickety whitewashed wooden stairs stood ready to carry visitors up to the threshold of his home.

Salty air lost out to syrupy pancakes. He entered the kitchen awash in the expected mild pandemonium of a weekday morning in full tilt. His creator, Dr. Jumba Jookiba, was bringing a spoonful of cold cereal to his mouth when he noticed his artificial progeny stroll through the entryway. "Well hello, Six-Two-Six! Pleased to be seeing you this morning." His thick accent clung mercilessly to the _h_ 's and _g_ 's. The four-eyed and self-proclaimed evil scientist was rather portly, his yellow Aloha shirt with the tacky floral pattern barely covering his tan chest. The mauve skin of his arms and head glistened with a thin film of sweat. He stood twice as tall as Stitch—and many times wider, much to Stitch's amusement.

When Stitch first escaped en route to his prison term on an asteroid, he had worked hard to avoid Jumba, who had been granted parole from his conviction of manufacturing illegal genetic abominations, but with the condition that he recapture his experiment. Once he had properly botched his assignment and was forcibly relocated to Earth, however, Jumba had softened his stance. Stitch had even found some excitement in cooperating with Jumba to repurpose his cousins, who had escaped their capsulated berths under Jumba's unwatchful eye. Despite the rocky start to their relationship, Stitch felt he had grown quite close to Jumba in their joint exile on Earth.

In stark contrast stood Agent Wendy Pleakley, Jumba's reluctant companion in exile. Rail thin and bland, his one large eye probed the scene. His four tentacle-like legs had no issue traversing the kitchen floor and clambering up a chair. Two arm tentacles expertly handled the accoutrements for his various—often human female—disguises he wore in public. Hairpieces and handbags were splayed across his section of the table. He dithered in indecision over his daily outfit.

He had always been more concerned with rules, decorum, and appearances as opposed to accomplishing his assignments—traits that had directly led to his banishment. When Pleakley should have concerned himself with capturing Stitch, the former Federation agent had striven to blend in with the native populace, a bold plan continually frustrated by the antenna jutting from the top of his head, and the tentacles, and the terrifically pale skin, among other oddities. Even after years of practice, Stitch had realized, Pleakley still could not get it right.

"Blech—"Jumba vocalized as he surveyed his counterpart enthralled in quiet debate between his blonde and brunette wigs. "When will you be finding yourself some more _masculine_ choices, Pleakley?"

"For your information, I only select the most stylish options that provide me optimal camouflage. These wigs represent the culmination of _years_ of research into the planet's population, and…." Stitch was too hungry to bother with Pleakley's palaver. This morning, he found Pleakley's nasally whine as obnoxious as Lilo's mean schoolgirl classmates.

The piping hot stack of pancakes steamed on a plate in the center of the table. Still a bit woozy from interrupted sleep, Stitch grabbed hold of a stile on one of the empty wooden chairs. Hot breakfast honeyed the air, and encouraged his leap onto the unpadded seat. Light streaming through the kitchen window pleasantly heated his back. Hungry eyes peered over the table's lip as he scouted out his prey. He pounced, snagging a spare plate and lunging for the pancakes, his fork wielded as a mighty spear. He came away victorious with three thick and fluffy trophies. He collected the disparate fixings, a left arm darting greedily for the maple syrup while a right one appropriated the butter dish. Once he had hoarded his supplies, he lathered each pancake, a task that his fingers complicated with their anticipative twitching for that first scrumptious bite.

Lilo and her older sister, Nani, had not appeared yet. _They can't be far off_ , he dismissed the worry as the impending banquet tantalized him. As the years had progressed, the sisters had come to require more and more time in the morning to prepare. David's re-return to Nani's life necessitated meticulous hour-long preening sessions. Stitch admired David's carefree attitude —a luxury Stitch himself could ill afford these days—along with his tenacious spirit during his multiple, and often failed, attempts at pursuing Nani. Though David's presence was a welcomed addition by many in the household, Stitch thought that Nani had only grown more anxious and persnickety in every aspect of her life, as evidenced by the bathroom door that would be locked until long after Stitch had left for town. Lilo—infinitely simpler— just preferred sleeping in. _I'll see them both soon_ , he assured himself, and turned back toward his feast that was rapidly growing soggy. Yet he kept an ear trained toward the hallway, awaiting the telltale whoosh as she traveled down the observation tower's tube to meet him.

As Stitch sliced apart his first pancake, he noticed that the room had darkened. His confusion sent him wheeling around to look out the window. Menacing storm clouds obstructed the toasty sunlight. _Didn't think it was supposed to rain today._ Confusion resolved, he returned to the delectable task at hand.

The pancakes were gone.

Both perplexed and nettled by the irritant of dissatisfied hunger, he slammed his fists against the table. Or where the table would have been, had it not vanished as well. His missed swing sent him rolling out of his seat and crashing onto to the floor.

Now deeply upset, he rose and blurted out, "Jumba! What's happen—"

He gawked at the empty space over Jumba's chair. Stitch swiveled his head to find Pleakley. _Gone too._

The confusion transformed into panic. His heart raced. He flipped his gaze around, trying to find someone— anyone—in the house. Outside, the storm clouds blackened. Sable shadows intruded in the room. A wind picked up and jarred the windows. His ear, trained toward the hallway, caught a faint sound. A voice.

"Stitch, get up."

"Lilo!" Stitch shouted. He skittered through the kitchen and into the main hallway. _Empty!_ She called out again, a ghostly wail trailing off as she spoke.

"Stitch, get up…."

Stitch scanned for his best friend. Light had fled, bedimming the stacks of papers with charts and drawings that Lilo and he used to consult daily and then leave scattered about. A page of him, a white and crimson depiction of good and bad, fluttered by. The whole house quaked from the wind's relentless battering. Stitch stumbled around in gloom. Unable to find the tube, he instead fumbled for the lip of the staircase up to the house's second floor.

"Stitch, get up…."

The darkness swallowed him. He laid down on arctic teak and covered his head with his hands. Windows shattered. Banshees screamed through gaping holes in his house. The wind whipped at his hands, his ears, his back. Airborne debris collided with the walls and the ceiling.

"Stitch…get…up…."

Darkness overcame him.

 _Darkness_.

The sun had long ago dipped below the horizon, leaving inky black in its wake. The usual lights from the town had been snuffed out. Pure darkness greeted Stitch when he opened his eyes. He welcomed it.

Instantly, his night vision activated and sheathed his eyes with dull green filters. His creator imbued him with a wealth of abilities that covered quite a broad spectrum of usefulness. As he discovered them, he kept a mental list of his powers and ranked them by utility. His high-definition night vision filters were near the top of his list.

The world was bathed in an eerie pale green hue. Jagged rubble from the demolished beach shack occupied his immediate space. He scanned the scene for a sign of Reuben. It took several moments to remember they had been separated during the chaos. Stitch made finding him a priority.

 _Maybe he went into town?_

Stitch looked up toward the town. Flickers of flames and embers from smoldering debris cast an anemic glow that crept onto the beach. He stumbled out of the rubble, and onto the sand. He slipped and fell. His legs fought his will to walk on the hard and slick sand. He quickly blinked a few times, trying to gain some clarity as he stared at shiny ground. A throbbing ache had dug itself deep into the back of his head.

Engaging his extra arms, he crawled up the slope toward the town at an excruciatingly slow pace. He peeked furtively upward as he went — no ships floated above. _How long until they come back? Will they come back?_ A shiver passed through his spine at the thought of more strikes. His powerful mind rebooted, and he set it to task. He pondered as he crawled. _Who had instigated the attacks? What were their motives? What did they want? Were there any townsfolk who survived? What about Reuben, Angel?_

 _My ʻohana_.

That thought formed right as he reached the soft clay of the dirt lot bordering the beach. The wave of worry that had overcome him when he lost consciousness once again crashed into his mind. His _ʻohana_ , his family. He needed to be sure they were safe. Reuben was family, too. But he would need to wait.

His legs started to comply. Cautiously, he fell back on his haunches, then rolled onto the paws of his hind legs. As he elevated, the other appendages waggled to help him balance. He clumsily plodded on unsteady feet toward the outskirts of town. He yawned. He breathed more deeply to push out exhaustion. He conceded that the laser blast may have done some damage to his impervious body.

Circling the outer edge of the town, he witnessed the damage the attack unleashed on his adopted home. Once proud buildings reduced to piles of ash and chunks of concrete. Hasagawa's shop, which sold the best watermelon on the island, was a lambent crater. Pockmarks and blast burns streaked the formerly pristine streets. A thick miasma of dust hung low. The terrible smog hampered his night vision, so he slowed his pace, careful to sidestep the massive holes bored into the ground.

When he approached the turn at the intersection with the steep road to home, the particulates thinned out. The slope upward liberated him from the hazy quagmire that saturated the town. He tried to run. He collapsed onto the ground, obstinate lungs wheezing. His eyelids became iron. A finger of sleep caressed his face. _I'll wake up from this nightmare._ The seared palm trees blurred and darkened. The somnolence beckoned.

A jolt electrified his body.

"My _ʻohana_!" he shouted at the quiet hill.

He was running.

The aches and pains flushed away. Six limbs acted in unison. His mind willed it so.

"My- _ʻohana_ -is-okay," he repeated between strides. The jungle echoed it. He kept running.

The smell reached him. A campfire scent, wood crackling, embers glowing, and family laughing. As he closed in on the hilltop, the odor grew bitter and harsh. Smoke accompanied the scent, and swirls and eddies of rising superheated air and pale green soot billowed in an enormous column ahead.

He ran faster.

He crested the hill. A brilliant and undulating white blinded him. His front legs missed their plant, and he tumbled end-over-end for several yards before smacking into a burnt palm tree stump hidden in dense brush. He recovered immediately, unfazed by his misstep. The night vision filter switched off. He looked toward his home.

The conflagration had consumed most of the house. A beach of ash covered the hill. Once a majestic dwelling overlooking the ocean that had sheltered him, fed him, loved him, his house was now a mound of hot dust. The observation tower had split in half. The top floor had caved inward into a pit of fire. Tongues of orange and yellow flames angrily coiled into the air and whipped at the shimmering black sky.

The roiling smoke obscured his view. He had to know if anyone was in the house. Stitch stepped toward the inferno. His arms flew up to shield his face, yet the searing heat only slightly singed his hairs. The whitewashed steps radiated reddened heat as he took them into the blaze.

Fireproofed, yet not totally immune to the flames, Stitch scrambled clumsily through the rapidly disintegrating doorway. Over the roar of the fire, Stitch heard the television set's cathode ray tubes implode with startling pops. The couch, with its worn indentations in the cushions, had melted into the charred teak flooring. Spider web cracks defiled the bay windows that had illuminated the room, their translucent coverings long ago joining the beach of ash. A haunting crimson glow, barely visible, permeated the superheated air that rapidly filled with acrid smoke.

Stitch coughed as he frantically tossed aside the remaining bits of furniture and the trinkets and baubles littering the floor. Particulates barraged his eyes' dark surfaces. He cleared the room. He moved deliberately into the kitchen, where the splintered remains of the table and chairs jutted up from the cracked floor tiles, which crunched underfoot like pieces of seashells washed ashore by angry ocean storms. Vipers of fire bit at Stitch as he clambered across the no-man's-land of tile and table toward the hallway.

Severed sections of the tower's tube were scattered on the searing teak floor. Stitch stumbled to the edge of the kitchen and saw what little remained of the staircase to the now-demolished second floor. _Lilo._ He pounded a disintegrating wall as piles of rubble cooked under an exposed roof, smoke curling away into the night.

He had obliterated this house before. He remembered the extended combat that had nearly ruined the house and his new life. Stitch had fought against those who would have kept him as he was—a weapon. A purpose he had shed. He had become more than the destruction he could wreak. He had gained a new purpose. On his adopted home world, he could create, and he could help. He had been happy. He had been free.

A thunderclap raced from the kitchen as support beams succumbed to the heat. The outer walls began to fall in. He noticed the window in the kitchen that had heated him during many breakfasts. The panes of glass were gone. Stitch sprinted for the hole. The walls collapsed.

A plume of ash and ember exploded out. Effluvia blasted over Stitch as he leapt through the window. Cinders smudged his blue fur as the shockwave overtook him. He rolled down the embankment that supported the house, stopping at the first of the whitewashed steps. He struggled to stand, woozy from the blast. Another crack, and the garage structure quit. A side of the house roared in a fiery landslide toward the hungry sea below. Fuel fleeing its consumer, the fire would burn itself out soon.

His legs gave up. He fell to his knees.

 _My ʻohana…._

His smoking leaden body dragged to the ground, unable to move. The tears were welling.

 _My ʻohana…._

He let them flow silently while the house flowed into the oceanic night.

#


	6. Chapter 5 - Broken Needle

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 5_

 _Broken Needle_

"Okay, I really should'a laid off the sandwiches," Reuben scolded his jiggling gut.

The surging crowd had taken him far from the beach, and a few errant elbows had knocked him into the domain of a crimson lance. Massive heat and energy had blown his goldenrod body out of the sea of people. The last bit he could recall was the weightlessness in his arms, the half-exposed claws floating in air thick with soot and screams.

After regaining consciousness on the outskirts of a demolished town, he had wandered as far away from the scene as stubby legs could manage—though in fairness, he did search for Stitch, Angel, and his other cousins before leaving. Limited by the fall of darkness and final rounds of bombardments, his sad effort had proven fruitless. Dawn had not shed greater light on his predicament, and as the sun peeked over the horizon, Reuben had peeked over the lip of a steep cliff where the road ended. Weak rays had not revealed the nick in the rock that had so eagerly tripped him.

Reuben now found himself clambering over mounds of rocks clinging to a steep grade, his stubby legs trying not to send him plummeting into the churning waters below. With a quick paw and a friendly sunbeam to point out a handhold, he had miraculously avoided taking that plummet after tripping over the ledge. As he clambered toward salvation, a persistent ringing still rattled in his head. He grudgingly chalked it up as evidence that the laser had inflicted some damage—damage undoubtedly worsened by this precipitous climb. A few feet above, level ground beckoned.

He answered its call with a few brave leaps upward. The last jump threw him back over the edge, and he fell flatly. Thanking several Earthly deities he had recently learned of, he stood and turned to admire the view from his much improved vantage point. The precipice hung at least a hundred feet above the tumultuous water and protruding rocks which together formed a barely navigable sloping coastline.

Excessive exertion stole his breath. "This body … is not built … for climbin'…or runnin'… or activity… in general," he panted through gasps for air. With his head still ringing, he took solace in a rapid daydream of lazing about on warm beach sand. Legs curled in preparation for sitting. _No_ , he willed, _keep moving._

He moved. The road bent ahead. He walked carefully along the banking slope. _I have to find her._ Breath evened out. The ringing quieted. The sunlight peeked through low hanging clouds and bathed him in invigorating warmth.

 _Alright, maybe I'll find her on the other side of the island._ Though he had not been able to locate his sapphire cousin, he trusted Stitch would find a way to survive; however, Angel did not merit that same trust. Reuben had not found her before the attack, and she had left no trace after it. He wanted to scold her for leaving them, for making them worry. But, a simple yet fiery desire to see her again overwhelmed his urge to reprimand.

Reuben was not accustomed to caring so much. It had been a challenge to learn to feel for his cousins. It was not malice, but rather apathy—or more accurately, laziness—that had held him back. Yet during his time on this backwater hovel, Reuben had experienced pangs of concern for his adopted family, a thoroughly confusing but not necessarily unpleasant sentiment. As he kicked a rounded igneous pebble over the cliff's edge, Reuben wondered about when exactly his attitude had changed.

It was a pristine Kaua`i summer day when he had crested the hill with the house. Reuben had left Gantu and their mission behind. Stitch and the rest of his family graciously opened their doors to him. A vise of shame and guilt squeezed as he climbed whitewashed steps. _I've spent all this time huntin' down my cousins, and now they're lettin' me live with 'em, just like that. How can I even look at 'em?_ His eyes dragged with his feet.

The door hung ajar. With timid steps onto teak flooring, he entered the living room. Stitch was flopped on the couch, lackadaisically flipping through television channels. His expression lit up when he saw Reuben. "Cousin!" he exclaimed. "Come in. _Meega_ only one home."

His cousin's jovial invitation in a slurry of English and Tantalog caught Reuben pleasantly off-guard. Nonetheless, adrenaline had his fingers twitching. Nerves fired with impunity. Claws half-exposed clacked together. As he plodded toward the sofa, he fumbled for his composure.

"Uh…hey, cuz," Reuben managed as he sank into the couch cushion. Its plush exterior ensnared him in a relaxing embrace. Stitch tenderly placed a hand on Reuben's shaking shoulder. The worry ebbed. In that moment, the small gesture did more for Reuben than he could ever express.

" _Oketaka_. We _achi-baba_. Friends," Stitch comforted. His cousin's engrossing black eyes exuded an aura of understanding and shared experience, and an empathy that extended beyond experiment designations. Guilt tried to resurface. Stitch's hand squeezed with greater reassurance. Reuben eased.

His confidence partially restored, Reuben spoke. "Just you here today, eh…so what's the plan then, my man?"

Stitch placed a hand on his chin. Hemming and hawing, he seemed to struggle with Reuben's surprisingly challenging question. " _Naga._ No plan," Stich conceded. He stared fitfully at the floor, apparently unsatisfied with the answer he gave. Then, " _Ikata!_ Got it! _Meega_ give you house tour." He gingerly hopped from his seat and bounced on padded feet while waiting for Reuben to do the same.

"Alright then, cuz. That's as good a plan as any," Reuben meekly agreed. His less-toned physique precipitated his awkward shuffling off the cushion and plopping onto the floor. Stitch did not laugh, but rather helped Reuben to his feet. Once Reuben was properly dusted off, they explored the dwelling. Kitchen, living room, porch, all interesting to Reuben, but all paled to the spectacle of Stitch's own pad.

They ascended the steel transit tube to the hemispherical room that overlooked the whole hill. Stitch explained this area had been built after he had spontaneously redecorated the entire house during a nasty altercation with their creator. Reuben was familiar with the incident, as he could recall Gantu's midnight lamentations on blowing the best chance he ever had at capturing the Abomination.

The dome flowed into gently curving walls, which were plastered with all manner of drawings, papers, and blueprints. Most related to his newfound ` _ohana_. Once he had separated from Gantu, Reuben discovered a remarkable clarity concerning his mission and his purpose. It was not tough for Reuben to believe that Stitch and the girl had beaten him time and again thanks in large part to their invariable dedication to repurposing the cousins. Both Reuben and Gantu sorely lacked the drive to build and protect such a close-knit _`ohana_ , and for that, they would have been doomed to suffer endless defeat. Reuben quietly huffed. _Meh, sandwich-makin' was a more productive use of my time anyway_. He nearly giggled.

A puff of dust curled from the edge of the room opposite Reuben. Stitch was rummaging through a milk crate replete with dozens of large paper squares ostensibly arranged in some order. With a wide grin, Stitch produced one of the squares and carried it carefully to Reuben. A man with funky black hair and a sequined suit stared soulfully up at him. Stitch could barely contain his excitement.

"Favorite!" he revealed with a small squeak.

Stitch reached his hand into an open end and produced a perfectly round black disc. When Reuben squinted, and if the light from the window above caught it at the perfect angle, he could make out grooves etched into the material. His cousin carted it over to a box, topped with a massive curved metal horn, tucked away toward the foot of a small bed. Stitch placed the black plate atop the box and lowered a needle onto it. He stepped back and closed his eyes.

Silence filled the room. "Um… okay, cool," Reuben unwittingly goaded.

An irascible temper cracked through the veneer Stitch had worn downstairs. He banged his fist against the side of the box several times. Nothing happened. He shook it around and clacked his claws on the horn. Nothing came out.

" _Choota!_ " he swore at the machine. He raised a finger and stared at one claw glinting in summer sunlight. He looked back to the box and then to his finger again, screwing up his eyes in obvious contemplation. Ultimately, Stitch resigned to leaving the whole mess be in its corner. "We try later," he promised with a peeved twitch overtaking his eyelid.

"Sure thing, champ…say, what's that?" Reuben waddled to a desk with a camera sitting atop. Reuben recognized the primitive device as a favorite among the humans they labelled as tourists. Printed pictures were strewn about. He picked up one with Stitch wearing some form of clothing constructed from grass, which had particularly caught his attention because the girl was standing next to Stitch in the same garb.

A blue gale swept in. Stitch snatched the picture from Reuben's grip and clutched it close. " _Naga_ , no see!" Stitch sprinted to the opposite side of the room and hid the photograph behind the bed, though he stayed in plain view of Reuben while doing so. Yet Reuben felt no desire to upset his cousin—an odd absence, as he had often been told that being a superb irritant was perhaps his best talent.

"Alrighty then, cuz. So…what's next on the list?"

Stitch stood three steps from the tube. " _Meega_ hungry. Time to eat!"

"Now that's a plan I can support." His stomach rumbled for a sandwich—raiding the fridge was his second-best talent, of that he had no doubt. "Y'know cuz," Reuben added as they hopped into the tube. "I can probably help ya with your, uh, language problem."

"Problem?" Stitch cocked his head.

"Yeah, y'know, yer…yer English. Maybe I can help with that, yeah?"

Reuben waited as Stitch scratched his chin and squinted wide dark eyes in thought. "Mm, _oketaka_. But we eat first?"

"Fine by me," Reuben assented with a chuckle as they disappeared down the tube.

He returned to the road carrying that chuckle. _Yeah, that's more like it._ Contentment with the realization of not taking his new family for granted brought a brief yet enviable glow to Reuben that the rising sun could not outshine. He knew without knowing that his cousins were still alive, still out there, and still looking for him. _Well then_ , he resolved, _guess I'll just hafta find 'em first_.

With confidence rekindled and the spring in his step restored, he strode down the road. _Like I did then, I will find my `ohana_.

#


	7. Chapter 6 - Gray Dawn

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 6_

 _Gray Dawn_

Through dry but puffy eyes, Stitch stared at the pockmarked plain that was once a town. _My `ohana is gone. I am alone._ A slight tremble passed through his body. _No. Must focus._ _Others might need help._ It passed. _I should look for survivors._

He steeled his nerves and clambered down the hill.

Stitch gave a slight wince every so often, his clearer head noticing the damage wrought by the crimson bolt. He now paid the penalty for his earlier frenetic and adrenaline-charged sprint. Hectic searching through his home's blackened ruins turned up nothing. _Not one body._ He had taken no rest, and the burning protests of fatigued muscles punished him for it.

The dawn had settled in, casting smoky light over the ruins. The attack had obliterated almost all standing structures. A few buttresses and slabs of concrete stood haphazardly out of piles of fine gray dust. The warm and comforting sand of the beach where Stitch had rested upon only hours ago flaunted its new glass coating in morning rays, the orbital barrage having crystallized the granules. The shallow water that used to lap at his feet had boiled. Fog hovered over the sea and raced inland on harsh gusts. The creeping ghostly mist intertwined with the ruins.

No seagulls squawked their aubade. No palm trees swayed in soft and salty breezes. No waves washed ashore. Only silent gray remained.

Stitch climbed atop a charred shard of a telephone pole that somehow remained stable under his weight. He circled the top and scanned with magnified vision for hints of life. From this new vista, the devastation seemingly stretched over the entire island, its verdant beauty defiled by a uniform coating of gray.

Splinters of the watermelon stalls that once stood outside Hasagawa's shop lay scattered across the main road, the vaporized fruit long since blown away in the wind. A sudden and profound sadness clashed with a mischievous smirk as he remembered the exquisitely plump melon he had pilfered a couple days before. His fellow conspirator and he had each grabbed an oblong side and scurried from the shopkeeper who wore impossibly thick glasses in a laudable attempt to cure her blindness. The duo chuckled as she wildly swung a broom three feet above their heads. Extra sweetness exuded from their illicit prize as they peeled its rind while sitting together on the beach. Gray dust now blanketed their formerly sandy spot, with jutting fragments of cracked glass capturing the bits of sunlight that wound through the fog.

He slid back down the pole. It crumbled behind him, and he leapt off the last foot before it added itself to the ever-present gray dust. At ground level, the flattened buildings and piles of decayed rubble buried under mist seemed almost menacing, prompting him to take his leave. _I should circle the island_ , he reasoned. _Maybe the bolts missed a patch,_ he hoped. No survivors had emerged from the ruins, an outcome he had expected. _Only my cousins could survive this_.

The main road from town had joined the gray mass, but Stitch's well-traveled feet found familiar ground. In the corner of his eye, he watched the shattered panes of beach glass refract brighter light as the fog showed signs of receding. Splitting attention between the road ahead and the beach and ocean on his side, he walked through the memory of his town.

Resurrected buildings rose from the gray ash. Wide golf umbrellas equally shaded the town streets and the local café tables as early-risers scrambled for their coffee and breakfasts. Tourists, their skin already glowing from sunburns in the warm morning light, ducked behind the fleeting shadows, lathering themselves with milky sunscreen in preparation for a day at the beach. Stitch stalked a pancake that had slipped from the lazy fork of a little boy and landed under the round white wooden table. He patiently waited on his haunches as the mainland family hastily packed far too many items into their beach bags, paid the waitress, and fled toward the beach on the other side of town. The waitress eyed Stitch, who gave his best impression of innocence, before she hustled back to her demanding duties.

After deftly swiping the golden-brown circle from beneath the table, he continued his morning survey of the town between idle bites. The heat of tourist season had warmed the spirits of all the local shop owners. Vendors of trinkets and baubles, beachwear and beach toys, and refreshments of all types were lifting shutters and locking cart wheels. Stitch investigated most of them, though he made sure to steer very clear of Hasagawa's quaint shop and the other watermelons that begged to be filched. His plan was to camp outside the hotel and observe the ever-amassing hordes of foreigners to his island as they went about their business of resorting. He derived a considerable amount of amusement from the aliens' foibles as they adjusted to an unfamiliar environment, an amusement Lilo had been quick to admonish two nights before.

"You were a foreigner not too long ago, Stitch. You shouldn't make fun of them…even if it is kinda funny," her voice cracked as she laughed a bit. Stitch had meant to look at her when she talked, but the nighttime movie about irradiated giant ants terrorizing townsfolk was too good to avert his eyes. He dismissively grunted and waved. "I'm serious, Stitch. You're gonna get yourself in trouble, sitting outside that hotel."

As he finished his pancake, he decided to heed Lilo's words and diverted to another path. His turn took him around some permanent residences, a few with doors hanging open as unlucky schoolchildren readied themselves to leave for summer classes. Lilo had gone in earlier than usual. The mounting duties of a middle-schooler had eaten more and more of her time, a lot of which came from the time formerly spent with Stitch. He had hoped to catch her at home and convince her to cut her hula camp lesson to spend the day enjoying the enlivened town, but warm teak flooring had kept him fast asleep when she crept out the door.

Along the scenic path, with luxurious palm trees spanning overhead, Stitch would see the occasional cousin hard at work. He nodded and gestured toward several as he passed by. Finding places for so many experiments on such a tiny island had proven to be the most difficult part of the last few years. Though some had elected not to stay, and others had a proclivity toward abandoning their posts during duller times, most seemed pleased with their new lots in life when Stitch visited them. Their warbles and waves when he walked by seemed to echo that sentiment.

The avenue bifurcated, with one road taking him to the school and the other leading toward the beach. Though the beach's soft and inviting sand called to him, he opted to wander past the school. He figured that Lilo's break between lessons would be approaching, and he could try to swipe her away then. A couple of steps down the road, and he heard the shout.

"Hey, cuz!"

Stitch wheeled around to find Reuben climbing the path from the beach, puffing as he broke from his jog. Stitch greeted him and asked about his morning.

"Oh, just fine. Dodgin' pasty tourists and all, nothin' too unusual for this time'a year. So, uh, me 'n' Angel were planning ta head down to the beach, if you were interested in joinin'."

Stitch longingly looked down the path at where the school would be. There would be only one break during hula camp, and he knew if he missed it, she would be tied up in an all-day affair. _I'll see her tonight then_ , he settled before nodding approvingly at Reuben, who clapped and gestured to Stitch to lead the way.

As they followed the path to the beach, they chatted about the tourists, their cousins, and about Jumba and Pleakley. "Yeah, Jumba will be fine with his usual tinkerin', but Pleakley will prob'ly be goin' stir-crazy, sittin' in that house. I know it's too risky for him 'n' Jumba to go out durin' tourist season, but Pleakley will need ta find somethin' to do, or he'll end up walkin' 'bout town with one'a his stupid wigs and get himself caught." Stitch shrugged, and Reuben chortled. "Hmm, y'know, that might make things a little more interestin' 'round here."

Light from the morning sun had swelled, and rays streamed through the lush but receding canopy and dappled pelages of sapphire and goldenrod. The long strip of land that buttressed the beach lay ahead. "Y'know cuz, I don't mind this planet. I'm still getting' used to it, a'course, but it beats the, uh, alternatives."

" _Gaba?_ " Stitch asked.

"Really? C'mon man, try that again."

A loud and irked sigh. "What?"

"Much better. Well, it's either livin' on this beach and soakin' up the sun, or hangin' out in one of those specially shielded prison cells on some far-off asteroid, or tryin' not ta get maimed by all the people in the galaxy who still don't like us a whole lot—can't make everyone happy, I suppose, even when ya bother ta save the known universe." Reuben scratched his chin. "Although, guess we're still technically hidin' out, _in exile_ y'know. But, if this is our punishment, I can live with it."

The beach was exactly as packed as Stitch had suspected. Throngs of beachgoers—though many more of them islanders than he had expected—swarmed along the soft sand and low surf. Stitch exchanged glances with Reuben, and they placed tentative feet on the beach's landside edge.

"Uh, hey, y'know what, cuz? I got an idea." Reuben retreated up the path a bit. "I'm gettin' kinda hungry. So I'll run back to the house and whip up a couple'a Reuben's specials. I think there's a picnic basket somewhere in that kitchen. You go find a spot 'n' wait for Angel, and I'll hunt ya down when I get back. Sound good?"

While Reuben spoke, Stitch began to wring his hands. Claws clattered as they played with one another. "Wait for Angel? Alone?"

"Hey, don't worry! You'll be fine!"

Stitch tried an appeasing smile, and failed. Reuben exhaled. "Look, I won't be gone that long. She prob'ly won't even get here until I come back. And if she does, just…be friendly, but if ya hafta, then keep yer distance, okay?"

Stitch gulped, and looked back up the path toward where the school would be. Legs almost started to churn, to run back to Lilo and beg her to spend the day with him. To keep him from making more mistakes. _It might change_ , hope whispered to him, as strongly as it had the night before.

" _Oketaka_."

"Hmm? What's that?"

"Hmph…okay, sure, cousin. I will stay."

"Marvelous!" Reuben shouted. A few wandering eyes popped up from the beach. Reuben shrank away further up the path. "Oh yeah, and uh, keep a low profile. Pleakley can blow his cover if he wants ta, but we _definitely_ can't."

After a couple beachgoers had sated their cursory curiosity and turned back to their various activities, Stitch entered the throngs and sought out his favorite spot. A little out of the way of the more popular sections, his sandy haven was relatively clear of pesky interlopers. He dusted off a spot, forming a gentle divot in the soft and warm sand. He had just begun to snuggle into his hideaway when her pink fur emerged from one of the crowds ahead.

He would later recognize it as rather ungentlemanly, but he thought nothing of the sort when he flew from his hole and back to the landside edge of the beach. He was a couple steps up the path when he stopped and turned back. Angel was wandering aimlessly along the beach, obviously sure she had spotted a splotch of midnight blue. A look of despondency crept up her face, her coils of fur bobbing furiously as she swiveled her head, searching. Stitch looked up the path one more time, and then hung his head and put a foot back on the beach.

Stitch slipped on the glass. Six limbs automatically braced for the impact, but it still sent pain resonating through his bones. He shook his head, and coughed as he inhaled more of the gray ash. The beach glass glinted weakly in the languid sunlight. Fog had evacuated the town only to encamp on the beach. Cautiously, he pulled himself back onto the solid dirt and sat. He surveyed the scene before allowing his eyes to wander up the path to where the school would be. He was ready to go back and convince her to skip hula camp and spend the day with him. _Together_.

A twinge twisted in his gut. Suddenly, Stitch's mind ran wild with feverish daydreams of his family roasting in their home, incinerated by plasma, crushed by debris. The twinge branched and coiled into a wrenching melancholy. He buried his head in his hands, waiting for the feeling to pass. Burning, melting, vaporizing, all laying siege to his mind. Tears welled. They dripped down from dark eyes, which blinked in a futile hope to dam them. His wall crumbling, like the wall that gave way in his house and sent it tumbling into the inky sea. His memories, his home, his ` _ohana_.

He roared.

It flew across ash-covered landscape, propelled by an unfathomable despair. It shook the husks of the wide leaves that formed the canopy, and the few surviving birds nesting within hurriedly flapped away. It was a sound that surprised him as he freed it. It was a sound he hated.

Once he had shoved the air from his lungs, his head drooped. His deep inhale was cut short by a coughing fit spurred on by more of the fine floating dust irritating his windpipe. The spasm oversaturated his eyes. He convulsed on the ground in a struggle to regain breath.

Each hack brought a new face. Each one, each smile, stared back at him through a shimmering pool. He reached for them. The pool bubbled. Feelings that he hated breached its surface. The pool boiled. _My `ohana is gone._ The pool drained. _I am alone._

Coughing mercifully abated, and he drew several deep and gratifying breaths while drying his eyes with the back of his arm. _I need to find Reuben and Angel._ As his strength returned, Stitch could evict the dark thoughts and fevered daydreams. _Reuben. Angel._ Purpose annealed. _Find them._

Stitch pushed off the ground and plodded forward on the path away from the beach. Lachrymose stings puffed up his dark eyes. Arms and legs, plagued with aches and fatigue, protested vigorously as he took one step after another. He paused to observe the sea. The fog had started to recede.

 _I will find them_. He willed his legs forward. _They are family. They are `ohana._

#


	8. Chapter 7 - Through Darkened Lenses

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 7_

 _Through Darkened Lenses_

 _So much gray._ A speck of gray ash floated through the air and attached itself to his impeccably groomed black suit jacket. Two meaty fingers flicked the intruder, and sent it scurrying back to its millions of friends littering the area. Millions more drifted in a slothful blizzard, blotting out a sun struggling to bring light to ruination. He lifted the pair of polarized sunglasses from intense eyes, and rested them atop his smooth head, which glistened with perspiration in what little light permeated the haze.

Cobra Bubbles, the once-former Central Intelligence Agency operative charged with a very special protective detail, surveyed the absolute carnage that had befallen the small town. All around him, workers from a half-dozen domestic agencies toiled in mounds of gray. Blue particulate masks had lost all traces of their color in minutes. He pulled down his own stifling mask, and took a tentative breath. Heavy gray dust filled his nostrils and desiccated his throat, and as the coughing began, he clumsily reattached his breathing apparatus.

"Are you alright, sir?" came the genuine concern from a subordinate tasked with shoveling through the ashes of a grocery stand.

"Yes, yes I'm fine," Cobra managed through short hacks, his impossibly deep velvet voice marred with scratchy rasps.

"Okay…so sir, what exactly are we looking for?"

After a few relaxed breaths, Cobra faced his subordinate. A greenhorn, most likely fresh from the training program of whatever organization claimed him, Cobra concluded. He angled his head, as the young man barely stood to Cobra's shoulders— few could challenge his imposing figure. "You'll know it when you see it, son."

The kid hovered for a few moments, rising onto the balls of his feet in anticipation for more direction. Cobra reapplied his sunglasses, and the subordinate wandered away, dragging his shovel listlessly through the thick ash. With a satisfied grunt, Cobra turned back and observed the remnants of the beach. The sparse light was still enough to illuminate the glassed surface, splitting errant rays as they streaked through shattered panes. He walked for a bit, sidestepping a few mounds and craters, and then bent down to pick up a section. Granules of sand and encased air bubbles peppered the shard.

"What did this…" he murmured. "No," he quickly corrected, " _who_ did this?"

The cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocked. A text message popped up on the screen, obscured in seconds by the accumulating dirty gray snow. _A situation update already?_ He wiped the screen clean and dialed the number.

"Sir, it's Cobra…yes, it's bad…no, I don't believe they caused it…no, I can't say that for sure." He kicked at a pile of former watermelons. The dust puffed into the air and ruined the shine on his meticulously polished shoes. "Not yet, but I'll keep looking…yessir, we'll secure the island within the hour."

The phone firmly entrenched in his jacket pocket again, Cobra's darkened lenses panned across the beach, watching the polluted ocean waves smack against an unforgiving landscape. _But where should I begin looking?_

For years, the CIA's interest in their special guests had stopped with Cobra. Human issues garnered far more attention from the higher-ups—and though the attack of a clone army had precipitated a shift, it moved at a glacially bureaucratic pace. None too keen about getting involved again with the agency, Cobra had little desire for advancement, and a posting on Kaua`i to provide overwatch had suited him well. But, he was still beholden to the good graces of program officers and directors who authorized the meager resources he received to keep tabs on more than six hundred of the most powerful and potentially dangerous beings in the galaxy. _They didn't pose much of a threat after he pacified them_ , Cobra had reasoned as his last fiscal year budget was halved. He brushed some of the ash from his shoes, which only further smudged their mirror finishes. _But now…._

"Sir." Cobra wheeled around to meet the head of the rescue operation. He was a bit stockier, and clad in a full bright yellow hazmat suit. Flecks of gray bounced off the fabric and tumbled to the ground. Cobra wrote a mental note to procure one such suit, provided it came in black. The voice that spoke from the plastic hood was clear and full. "We've scoured the town. No survivors."

"…at all?"

The man shook his hooded head. "What's worse, we can't even find their bodies. Whatever happened here, it…it just _annihilated_ everything. All we have is this damned gray dust!" He wiped at a few dingy patches on his elbows and knees.

"Hmph," Cobra grumbled. "Well, keep at it. I need something more optimistic to relay to Langley. And while I have you here, can you tell me if anyone has checked at the end of that road over there?" He pointed a meaty finger to a distant dirt path, buried behind jungle brush, which slithered along a steep hill. The man shook his head.

"Okay then. If you could spare a few men, I'd like to check it out."

"Of course, sir. Those two over there, checking out the path off the beach. I'll radio ahead and let them know. They'll meet you at the foot of the hill."

Cobra gave an approving nod and started toward the distant dirt path. A lifetime ago, he had crested that hill to investigate a little pastoral house and its occupants struggling to survive against unfathomable adversity. It had taken time, but he had been pleased with the results. Yet as he closed in on the hill, an unfamiliar knot of fear tightened in his gut.

"She's being…moody today. I don't think she'll come out to see you, Cobra."

Nani shook her head as Cobra stood on the porch, a tad winded from his climb up the whitewashed steps. The late morning sun cast warming rays over the house. The impeccably groomed black suit jacket heated rapidly, but as usual, Cobra was determined not to break a sweat. The tired but fiery eyes of the older sister watched as Cobra steadied his breathing and readjusted the coat. "I'm not sure how long this budgetary meeting will last — HQ likes to drag out things like this. I just…wanted to check in on her before I leave."

Nani folded her arms and leaned through the doorway. In the outdoor light, the toll of caring for her sister became evident. She was still striking, but deep-set bags under her eyes betrayed Nani's enervation. Cobra imagined that working several jobs and caring for her adolescent sister was almost too much to ask, yet Nani's demeanor and drive never wavered. Cobra had always been proud of her.

"I know, Cobra. But there's been something going on with that girl. Been cooped up in her room for a few days now. School's been out, so I've only seen her for most meals and the occasional time with the TV. I'm worried."

"Has anyone else spoken to her?"

"Oh, I tried sending David up there—didn't help. He's usually good about things like this—much better than I am."

"Better?"

"…calmer."

"Ah." Cobra recalled seeing her fire the first time he had ascended those steps. Nani had been so haggard then, barely keeping the house together. Time had given her experience, and had cooled her temper. But even as she learned how to manage the whole mess, and gained some help along the way, the fire would occasionally reignite, especially when it involved Lilo.

"Yeah, but that girl is a stubborn one."

"Would it have something to do with the, uh…with him?" Cobra prodded.

"Who—oh, no. She hasn't been around him lately. He's been spending so much time with that yellow one. They've been off on the island following their cousins, and Lilo's been doing—well, I don't know what she's been doing. I just… _oy_."

"Could that be part of the problem?"

"No, I don't think so. They've seen plenty of each other recently. The whole thing is just kooky, Cobra. It's very unlike her…." Nani paused as her eyes lit up. "Actually, if I'm counting right, this is about the time that he disappeared for those few days. That was, what, three years ago now? I wonder…."

Cobra's shades rose to the domed observation tower. _What a burden to bear_. When the blue one had been held captive on Turo for several days following the relinquishment of his Armada commission, she had received the initial call. Cobra had delivered it to his superiors, who tasked a well-spoken olive-skinned man to retrieve him. Lilo had been told to never talk about the operation—a mandate that Cobra had given on bended knee. He had expected her to immediately violate it, but from the way Nani squinted when she talked about the situation, Cobra knew the little girl had stayed silent for three long years.

"I wouldn't think so," Cobra fibbed. "There may be something else—or several somethings. She's had to mature much faster than the other girls her age, so she certainly concerns herself with more advanced problems than they do. It's what makes her special, Nani."

"I suppose so."

"Just give her a few more days to work it out. Be supportive, and she'll eventually open up. She always does."

A smile brought out the shallow dimples in Nani's cheeks. "You're right, Cobra, I know you are." She sighed. "I'm going to miss having you around."

"I'll be back soon, Nani. Don't worry. For now, though…." Cobra's darkened lenses gazed at the ground as he shuffled his polished shoes. "Please tell her I stopped by, okay?"

"Of course."

Cobra looked back at the domed observation tower a final time before bidding Nani farewell. As he proceeded down the whitewashed stairs, which creaked underfoot, he wondered how the two of them would bear their own burdens, worn so visibly yet kept so secret. Cobra was concerned by how absent the blue one had become. He hoped that when he revisited after the budget meeting, the one she called Stitch would have taken a more active role in supporting her. _What a burden to bear_.

The budgetary meeting had been winding down, the last points of contention nearly buried. Cobra was halfway done with ordering his plane ticket back when the news arrived. In the confused scramble following the attack, his mind had gone back to the house on the hill, wondering if they had been keeping it together and bearing their burdens. With the house now only a short walk away, and two hazmat-clad investigators waving him on, he could only hope the house's occupants had again survived against unfathomable adversity.

#


	9. Chapter 8 - Disappointment

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 8_

 _Disappointment_

The rays of the bright daytime sun blanketed the island. One of them shone through the canopy of palm trees and bathed Stitch in golden light. He stirred. Cirrus cloud wisps drifting lazily through the pale blue hole in the trees greeted him as he awoke. A warm and calming tide of serenity swept over him. He savored the moment, reveling in the slow sway of wide leaves.

Yet a feeling of unease was encroaching upon his brief peace. _Something isn't right_. He tried—and failed— to recall the last location he had covered during his search of the island. He shifted his arms, and dirt crinkled. His head was resting on a pillow, soft but with detectable strands scratching his scalp. Water sloshed somewhere nearby. He craned his neck to find the source, and found clusters of ferns and brush. He brought his head back to his pillow, and he eyes resolved the fronds blotting out the sky.

His malaise mutated into panic. _Where am I?_

He bolted upright and smacked his ears on the overhanging fronds. Gray flurried down. Displeased, he swatted at the cloud, and furiously dusted off the bits that clung. He looked at the ferns, with their vibrant greens replaced with the omnipresent coating of dull gray ash. In his patch, accumulation was light, but was just enough to steal away the colors of Kaua`i vegetation.

Stitch rolled off the patch of grass that served as a makeshift mattress and returned to his feet. He rotated his arms, and brushed off the ruddy clay dust that had blown off the road several feet away. With the sun glaring straight down at the drained island, he figured he had unwittingly slept away the whole morning.

Still unsure of his location, he hyperventilated, and gray dust shot up his nose. A few rough sneezes later, he mentally strained to calm down. He closed his eyes. _Angel and Reuben on the beach_. With a half-day's head start, they could be anywhere on the island. Or they could have found a way to depart it. With no way to contact them, and no good place to start, exploring the island in deliberate fashion was the only option left to Stitch.

He emerged from the brush onto the dirt road with fresh eyes. Ocean waves crashed noisily. He peeked over a promontory at undulating Pacific waters, still as ornery as the night before. He pulled back and oriented himself on the road in relation to the sun. Thanks to a neat trick he had picked up from someone in his house, most likely Lilo, he determined the road ran north to south. Fairly certain that he had traveled north before passing out, he saw no reason to change direction now.

He stretched out irate legs and arms in anticipation of a good run. The aches had subsided somewhat, but incredibly tense muscles protested his stretches. A few warm-up jogs in place, and he took off on four limbs down the road, still reticent to break his disguise. Several strides in, his eyes ventured up to the sky. _Still no ships_ , he happily noted.

The skies had remained clear of the aggressors since he awoke on the beach. Were an invasion occurring, as Stitch had witnessed on late-night television B-movies, ships would have staked out an area of operation and ground forces would have descended onto Kaua`i. Lasers or bombs, and smoke and debris clouds, did not mar the air above any of the other islands. Suspicion percolated through his powerful mind. _An isolated strike on a tiny island on an insignificant world...why?_

In the greater galaxy, Stitch had learned, organisms like humans were widely panned as a laughably inferior species, one clueless about the universe but adamant about its place in it. From his experience, people on Earth did seem to possess an almost arrogant understanding of their world, a notion Stitch abused as he walked around in broad daylight for years without fielding a serious probing inquiry about his origin. Hiding grander truths of the universe from humans, then, would be no impressive accomplishment for the so-called evolutionarily superior beings of the Federation.

If humanity were not the reason such a force would bombard Earth, Stitch posited, then something else on this island must possess some significant value to the galaxy. Or rather, more than six hundred things. _My cousins_.

The Council had approached him for assistance in capturing Jumba's other creations set loose on Earth. Rather than imprisonment, he gave them a home just like he had found, and helped each one find their specific purposes to fulfill. His ` _ohana_ grew, as did his gratefulness for the close companionship they brought. The United Galactic Federation had noticed as well. They showered him in medals and glory— he had even captained the flagship vessel of the Galactic Armada, albeit for a record-setting short tenure that his mind could not easily shake.

"Well now, Six-Two-Six, that should conclude all the transfers. I apologize for our terseness, but we have some extremely pressing matters to attend to. After all…our Armada _is_ without a leader."

The black form-fitting uniform lay crumpled at the base of the Council's table. A few stuffy politicians glowered at the little blue creature. Most of the Council had opted to skip this meeting, a choice Stitch approved. Three months had passed since his official resignation—the procedure for discharge crawled along at a dismally slow pace—which had kept interest from building up in the galactic media and had left scarce opportunities for public comments. A few young-looking staffers, most likely conned into attendance by unscrupulous editors, picked at the railing of the press area near the rear of the Grand Hall. Still, even with an anemic turnout, he hung his head, avoiding the disappointed gazes encircling him.

"Oh, come now, Six-Two-Six," reproved the commanding contralto of the Grand Councilwoman. "There's no need for shame. You've done this galaxy a great service. Your fellow experiments owe their lives to you—they would be _proud_."

Dark eyes rose, and met obsidian jewels. She had aged, subtly but noticeably, since the time when he had been locked in the glass prison with planetary delegates and seasoned diplomats spewing invectives that had wormed through his cell's walls and burrowed into his mind. Angry sounds that he did not like had elicited rash responses they had not liked. Her azure skin had wrinkled in much the same way that day as it did now, but a tiredness had seized the rest of her form. That tiredness dragged her arm as she placed three long digits on his shoulder.

"Do not worry about the Armada, Six-Two-Six," her contralto softened. "Turn your attention to those who need you most. Back on Earth. You have excelled there, far beyond our expectations. That is where you belong."

Stitch could only manage a small snort. Metal groaned behind him as the staffers had leaned forward excitedly to hear his response, only to fall back in disappointment. _More disappointment_.

"Look at it this way, Six-Two-Six. You have the opportunity to avoid all the politics that come with galactic office. It'll be nice to not have the press always bearing down on you…trust me." She stared for a few seconds at the rear of the room, obsidian jewels daring the green whelps to quote her. Communicators stayed in their pockets.

"But don't forget: Just because you have been discharged from the Armada, that does not mean your duties are done. We still expect occasional reports on your progress. Keep us informed. Is that agreeable?"

Stitch's first smile since landing on Turo spread across his face. " _Ih_. _Takka_."

"No, Six-Two-Six, thank you for your service. We look forward to your next report. Dismissed."

The reporters were still cowering at the back of the press area when Stitch exited the Grand Hall. Several guards milling about straightened as he walked past. _Last time I'll see that from them_ , Stitch mused while turning away from the military transport bay tunnel. A couple of unfamiliar sterile hallways led him out the outer door of the Council's headquarters and into the Turan evening.

The megacity thrummed with abundant life. No matter the time of day, rivers of people flowed along multi-tiered sidewalks and pathways. Compact vehicles hovering a foot off of gray pavement zipped alongside. Military and civilian dropships shuttled their passengers around the white and steel spires of skyscrapers, and took them out of the murky atmosphere toward orbiting passenger transport hubs with waiting starships. Street-side shops buzzed, with excitable owners hawking every product imaginable —legal or otherwise.

While passing an extranet terminal store, one of the screens displayed his face. Curious, he turned to watch. The screen was tuned to the third-most-popular Turan news network, which had apparently decided to run his story. Though there was no sound playing, he read the ticker along the bottom of the image. _Grand Councilwoman on the Armada Debacle: 'It'll be nice to not have the press always bearing down on you_.' Stitch gasped before breaking out into a personal chuckle as he imagined the fate of whichever temerarious young reporter had challenged her. Once his laugh died down, he noticed that much of the din around him had also died down. Dozens of Turans — a classification composed of an incredible mixture of species from across the galaxy— had stopped to stare at Stitch. The sudden silence and combination of alien eyeballs brought on a swell of discomfort.

Stitch planted his eyes on the ground and left the store's window. As he plodded down the shortest pathway to the civilian spaceport, whispers hissed among the stationary and star-struck mob. They hastily cupped their mouths, ostensibly hiding their unfiltered thoughts. Finely-tuned ears heard them all.

"It's so small. How could it be dangerous?"

"I heard it _killed_ its creator."

"Look at those teeth. Terrifying."

"Thank heavens it's not in charge of the Armada anymore. That was a big mistake."

"I think he's kinda cute."

"Didn't it save the galaxy once? Or am I wrong?"

"Council really botched this. The Coalition wouldn't have even dreamed of doing this."

"There's more of them, too. A lot more."

"But I heard he _did_ help them…as much good as that'll do, I suppose."

"Shouldn't be out of exile."

"There's a good reason they're illegal."

"Can it even understand what's going on?"

"The Council said they'd take care of it. Why is it still walking around?"

"Six-Two-Six, if you can hear me, good luck out there. You're a hero to us all."

Stitch halted, brought up his dark eyes, and scanned the crowd. Nervous creatures buried their faces in their communicators and hurried away. The lonely compliment dissolved into the slew of rumors and drivel. "Hero…" he muttered as he resumed his walk toward his ride home. _Disappointing._

He had been further disappointed in his impromptu Turan imprisonment, taken right from the spaceport and tossed into a musty cell. It took three more days before he could finally escape the maelstrom of rumors, thanks to the beneficence of one human. When he had left behind the atmosphere of Turo, and returned to his adopted home world, he had sworn to pay forward the kindness shown to him by the human ambassador. Three years had passed since his stint in the musty cell, and he had not squandered a single day. _Stitch was good_ , he had wanted to tell the human.

He had also wanted to tell it to the galaxy. Yet even after saving them from an army of clones, they had been unwilling to listen. Aside from occasional basic reports—half of which went unacknowledged—his contact with anyone off-planet had been sporadic and meaningless. Stitch covered his eyes as the sun brightened above the open road. _No one's been caring. So w_ _hy blow us up now?_

He had been running for some indeterminate amount of time, spinning webs of galactic power plays and politics, when he reached the end of the road. He had stopped his thoughts quickly enough to avoid dashing right off the impending precipice. The road banked sharply and continued to the east. Down the edge of the cliff was a sheer drop of more than a hundred feet, along rocks that lined the cliff face, into churning ocean that awaited any unfortunate souls.

Fine dust particles had been disturbed on the road's surface. Stitch crouched down to investigate. His ability to track his fellow experiments was ranked very highly on his list. In the coverings of dust and ash, he could barely make out what appeared to be a footprint. It was quite small, about the size of his own hand, and oblong in shape.

The claw marks at the top of the print appeared to point toward the east, following the road. Only a single print was clear. _Plenty_ , he affirmed as he started down the road.

#


	10. Chapter 9 - Wrinkled Black

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 9_

 _Wrinkled Black_

Knuckles rapped. Gantu roused from restful sleep and groggily responded, "Mhm… what?"

"Sir, we've arrived in the docking bay. Can I open the door, please?" muffled and trembling notes queried.

Gantu reluctantly rubbed his eyes as he placed his surroundings. The frigid metal of the shuttle floor offered little comfort to his contorted body. Feet were pressed against the cockpit door and his head inched dangerously close to the rear wall. Illuminators overhead buzzed as they cast their dim glows. In the cramped quarters, Gantu twisted his arms around and smoothed his wrinkled uniform as best he could.

"Ehem, yes, go ahead," he permitted.

The door let out a hiss and slithered up the side. Eyes cried out in shock at the severe brightness. Even after a few moments to adjust his sight, the sterile light from blazing arc lamps still shadowed the being that had awoken him. Behind a blackened umbra, Gantu could make out the creature's shrunken yet stocky build. An oblong head cocked to the side.

Gantu hopped onto the docking bay floor, upon which the Federation had adorned the name of the vessel. Gantu quickly recognized that he stood in only one of this dreadnought's several docking bays dotting her hull. The mammoth cavern he currently explored held well over a hundred fighters, dropships, and support vehicles. As a member of the Admiralty, he had studied the plans for the ship many times, and oversaw the behemoth's construction, secretly pining for the chance to helm her first.

Though she was large, the _UGF Adesa_ possessed an elegance rarely found in space-faring vessels. Nearly half a mile along its main axis, the _Adesa_ flowed through the void with her breathtakingly symmetrical curvature. After watching several eagles circle his Kaua`i hideaway, and adoring their fantastically constructed bodies that afforded them flight, Gantu could not shake the comparisons with the Federation flagship. Her metallic body was built like a powerful bird-of-prey, yet arcs and curves softened her edges. The _Adesa_ set a high bar as the prototype of a _Jua'aquad_ class ship. _And she is a city all to herself_. At full combat readiness, she could house nearly ten thousand active duty personnel on fifty decks. The Federation budget, however, had reduced her to a skeleton crew.

Yet Gantu revered her, for though her crew may be light, her arsenal still hit heavy. Small and large-caliber laser cannons and plasma bomb launchers were loaded and poised to clear a fleet in a single barrage. Anti-ship torpedoes and defensive turrets swiveled, ready to fry any craft moronic enough to challenge her. State-of-the-art defensive shielding and barrier generators hummed background noise as they projected nigh impenetrable fields into the surrounding vacuum.

Her creators intended for her to serve as a mobile command center and communications hub in the event of Turo's demise. Gantu had originally lamented the cost of creating the _Adesa_ , more vocally as the budget tightened during her years as a pile of metal girding in the shipyard. Standing aboard her now, in her full glory, elation at his error flooded him.

He returned to his rescuer. He had to strain his neck to peer down at the diminutive creature. Gantu admired his rather unique shade of burnt orange skin, stretched tautly over his bulky frame - not obese, but sporting an ample layer of fat. The pilot of the shuttle snapped to attention and saluted, a three digit hand sitting flush against a forehead drenched in perspiration. Two beady stone eyes met his superior's without the trepidation that saturated his dulciloquent tenor. "Chief Warrant Officer Te'sudu, at your service, sir!"

Still dreary from his rest, Gantu absentmindedly executed a sloppy salute. The slightest flicker of disappointment twisted across Te'sudu's face.

Still at attention, Te'sudu inquired, "Shall I take you to the bridge, sir? The captain will be expecting you."

Gantu fought to gain his bearings, a battle waged over several lethargic seconds. Te'sudu's eyes never wavered. "Um, y-yes, lead the way," Gantu finally answered.

Te'sudu sharply turned and strode at a quick clip toward the central elevator, encased in a steel column adjoining a bay wall. Gantu limped behind the pilot in a proud concealment of his numerous injuries. The vitality restored by his nap was draining as his leg smarted with each step. _After meeting the captain, it may be worth my time to stop by the infirmary_. His new pilot companion had expected the legend, but received the damning truth. The pilot would mark the first of many to be let down if Gantu failed to return to prime fighting condition.

At the column, Te'sudu's fingers flew across the holographic display, dialing up a special elevator to the bridge. Gantu studied the pilot during their wait for the lift. An individual in a constant swivet, dabbing at his glistening forehead with a monogrammed silken handkerchief stowed unobtrusively in his pants pocket. His obvious anxiety masked the indomitable force of will that he transmitted through his eyes. _I'll have to do better to impress this one,_ Gantu reprimanded.

Two doors separated, revealing a glass cylinder large enough to afford the oversized Gantu a bit of much-desired headroom. Te'sudu gestured at Gantu, and he gleefully obliged. Te'sudu followed and whipped through several motions on the internal holographic panel. The doors slid shut with an audible click and the elevator shot upward at incredible speed.

Gantu ran a finger down the crystal barrier. Beyond it, the Federation's soldiers toiled in their preparations. The reflection of his admiral's cardinal red caught his attention. _A far cry from Captain Gantu_. A yearning for the black attire of earlier days seized him.

The black uniform, folded neatly in his elephantine hands, looked smaller than he would have guessed. It certainly could not have been as large as the cardinal red suit laid out on the mattress in the Turan suite. The ceremony had dragged on, and were it not for Toobihya's half-drunken comments concerning several female Turans in attendance, Gantu would have easily nodded off. He was grateful to have stayed awake long enough to rise when she had called his name and brought him before the delegation to accept his new posting to the Admiralty.

It had come as quite the surprise to many in the galaxy—none more so than Gantu. At least half of the Federation's representatives had not applauded at the appropriate time, more likely out of confusion rather than derision. In the acoustically eerie Grand Hall, he could almost hear the Grand Councilwoman mutter something under her breath as she turned over the cardinal red suit. He was almost sure it was something positive and friendly.

She was the one who knocked on his suite's door as Gantu hastily zipped up his new Admiralty uniform. The threads were still a bit stiff, and he must have appeared quite awkward when the suite's door opened and she entered. The relentless march of time was beginning to show, with the wrinkles of her azure skin multiplying. Despite her wrinkles— or perhaps because of them— she still retained her marvelous aura of demeanor and control, and she visibly wore the love she had for the people in her galaxy.

"Ah, I see the uniform fits you well," she flattered him. "Congratulations again on your appointment, _Admiral_ Gantu. I wanted to bring you your briefing materials. Now that you're a member of the Admiralty Board, there's much we'll need to discuss." She produced a ruby communicator from somewhere in her flowing black formal dress and deposited it on an endtable standing guard by the door.

Gantu snorted. "Couldn't have sent a nice page to do this?"

She laughed. "I considered it, but...I thought I should handle this personally. And I wanted to check that you were well accommodated." Gantu watched as she paced about the suite's perimeter, running long blue fingers along the edges of several pieces of plain furniture. "I know it's been some time since you've been on Turo for something…positive."

"Not that long, ma'am. But, thank you, I appreciate it."

"Sure, of course." One of her hands wrapped around the handle of the bedpost. The other drew a line down the front of Gantu's black suit, still folded neatly on the bed. "I remember a time, Gantu, when it was all so much simpler. When Admiralty Boards governing Armadas would've been a funny dream, something no sane Federation politician would ever bring up. And now, the sky is filled with ships. We…we live by them. Even as they bleed us dry, we live by them." She groaned as she rested on the mattress, though she still retained her typical demure posture. "What went wrong, Gantu?"

"Nothing, Grand Councilwoman. At least, nothing with us." He took a seat next to her. The mattress protested with a series of loud squeaks. "The galaxy changed. And that…that _trog_ didn't help matters much." It took Gantu a few moments to discover that his fists had involuntarily clenched.

She noticed. "Oh, you and the Experiments. When will you let that go, Gantu? It was an unhealthy obsession for you. It nearly cost you this." She laid a hand across the black uniform. "You'll need to move past that if you want to be effective on the Admiralty Board. And we _will_ need you to do that, Gantu."

The fists relaxed. Gantu sighed. "Of course...I understand, ma'am."

A smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "Good." She rose. "Well, no matter _why_ things are how they are, we must work within the reality we're granted. So then you, Admiral, will need some time to go through your briefings," she said while pointing at the ruby communicator on the endtable. "Get to it— your first meeting is early tomorrow morning." She moved to the door. "Oh, and try not to enjoy yourself _too_ much tonight…but have a bit of fun." With a wink, she was gone.

No sooner had she disappeared than did Admiral Toobihya materialize at the door. His rotund frame shook as he squeezed into the room and began excitedly shouting at Gantu about a new club that had opened in a posh section of town. "Free drinks for admirals, I'd wager!" he jauntily opined, pink jowls shuddering from anticipation. "Come on, Gantu—I'm buying!" Toobihya's prehensile trunk was pointing the way out.

Gantu looked back down at the black uniform. A wrinkle had risen up across the front. He tugged at it a bit, but the stubborn fabric refused to smooth. He grunted before rising from the bed and, after playing with the stiff cardinal red sleeves, followed Toobihya into the night. He had barely made it to his first meeting, but had surprised everyone with a few solid extemporized lines on galactic security. The Grand Councilwoman had not been able to resist flashing him a knowing smirk as the rest of the Admiralty and staff grumbled and harrumphed.

"Did you have a good rest, sir?" Immediately, Gantu was back in the _Adesa's_ elevator. He found the pilot toward the lift's center. "It looked like you could use it." Gantu's silent pondering seemed to have driven Te'sudu to some frantic and ineffective dabbing at his forehead. "N-not that's it my place to say, it's j-just that it got pretty rough on Turo…um…sir."

In an impressive display of nimble thinking, Gantu availed himself of the opportunity to improve his botched first impression with Te'sudu. "Oh no, of course. Thank you for asking. It was pretty rough, Te'sudu. The bastards caught us by surprise, but we'll get them back." Palliative words for Te'sudu. "Oh, and thanks for getting me out of there. You pulled off some good shuttlework back there." He elicited a pleased smirk from the pilot.

"It was my pleasure, sir."

The lift doors slid open, and Gantu and the pilot emerged into the maelstrom that was _Adesa's_ bridge. Panicked operators furiously swiped and motioned at machines encircling the centerpiece, the captain's chair. The empty captain's chair.

Te'sudu unleashed the power encased within his stone eyes. "What the hell is going on in here!" he barked at the nearest operator. A creature, who if his skin were not so red could have been mistaken for Te'sudu's twin, paused his frenetic activity.

"The captain. She's gone!"

#


	11. Chapter 10 - What Was Left

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 10_

 _What Was Left_

With sunglasses atop his head, Cobra knelt in what used to be a busy kitchen and extracted a shattered floor tile. It crumbled in his hand. He brushed away the dust and rose, scanning the charred remains of the pastoral house. The dust was thin on the hill, and the cloud was less stringent on the nearly noonday sunlight. The stove that had been boiling over the first time he entered the home had detonated during the fire, embedding bits of burner in a nearby seared teak support beam. He scratched the wood's surface, and charcoal stuck under his fingernail. While he picked at the grime, the topmost whitewashed step creaked as one of the other agents navigated the mess and joined him.

"There's nothing here, sir. No bodies, no remains, nothing. All burnt to a crisp."

Cobra hammered a heavy fist against the support beam. It groaned but did not snap. "Tell me, son. Does anything look strange to you about this place?"

"Umm…no, looks like a regular fire to me."

"Exactly. A _fire_." He began pacing around the remnants of the first floor. "Think back to the town. Every building, every vehicle, every…person…they were all turned to that gray dust, right?"

"Yessir."

"But this house…this house _burned_. For a while. It was not obliterated like the rest." He stopped in front of what was formerly a television set. The fingers of heat radiating from the flames had twisted the components of the box into a melted avant-garde sculpture. "Why is that?"

"Well, sir, this house is pretty far back from the town. Up on a hill, out of the way. Whatever destroyed the town may have missed this house. But maybe those weapons or explosives could've ignited it. Some kind of flashpoint induction."

"That's possible…but then why," Cobra started as he stormed to the front of the house and, through the remnants of the doorway, gestured wildly to the tree line, "aren't these trees burned as well?" Full and thick foliage, covered in gray dust, adopted a small sway in a weak breeze.

"I…I don't know, sir."

He turned back to the young man, whose head drooped. On their walk up the hill, Cobra had learned that his two companions, Chuck and Ted, were emergency responders by trade. They had received minimal training on the job concerning fires, but Chuck had mentioned his proclivity for cable channel crime shows about arsonists. Though by no means an expert, Chuck expressed that he wanted to help in any way he could, and so had applied his pop knowledge to the ruins of the house.

"Hmph…that's fine, Chuck. I don't know either. But something is definitely off about all of this."

"Agreed, sir. It's pretty fishy. Y'think we should get a real fire investigation team up here, to take a look?"

Cobra had wandered back over to the sloping pile of rubble as Chuck talked. His sunglasses had retaken their position on his face. Through shaded eyes, he peered over the half of the living room still attached to the hill, and saw bits of the house stubbornly refusing to be washed out to sea. _Determined…like its occupants_. "No, I don't believe that'll help anything. Plus, they're busy below." _Not my operation_ , he had to remind himself.

"Okay, sir, then I—hey, Ted's wavin' at us. I think he found something!"

The black rubber glove over by the tree line beckoned for the two in the house. As they descended down the whitewashed stairs, which painfully creaked with each step, Cobra mulled over the state of the house, nagged by terrifically inconclusive evidence. _What happened here_? _What am I missing?_

The agony of ignorance had tortured him on a twelve-hour flight back to the island. Langley's private jet, now crammed to the gills with equipment needed for the recovery effort, had sliced through clear blue sky. Cobra had stared out the rounded window, watching verdant landmasses roll into the sparkling ocean. The only clouds he had seen had arisen from Kaua`i as the plane had descended. Those questions— _What happened here? What am I missing?_ — had haunted him as he had scoured the remains of the town, and as he had clambered up the hill to reach what was left of the house. He continued agonizing in ignorance as the duo reached Ted, who was excitedly pointing at a spot on the ground.

"Check it out!" Ted shouted in his tenor. Cobra knelt down and unsheathed his eyes. With his sunglasses wrapped up in one hand, Cobra's other hand ran a finger along the edges of a mark. The fire had singed the grass around it, and a dusting of ash partially hid it. Yet Cobra could not hold back a tiny gasp as he looked down at the print of a small sandal shoe firmly pressed into the soft earth.

"Isn't that great!" Ted was nearly jumping. "First sign of life we've found yet!"

"Yeah, sure. But...how can we know how old it is?" Chuck posited. "Could've been here before the attack."

"Look," Cobra murmured as leaned in. "Bits of the ash are pressed into it."

Chuck screwed up his eyes. "And that means…."

"Means that someone walked here _after_ the ash had fallen." Cobra straightened and stared into the jungle. Behind him, his two companions filled the air with their warbling about the possibility of survivors. A light wind had kicked up from the shoreline and was tossing ash between the leaves and fronds bobbing in the breeze. A few wayward gray specks splashed against the darkened lenses in Cobra's hand while he wracked his brain to plot out where a survivor could have gone.

"That seems like a stretch…sir."

Concentration was broken. After brushing off the ash, eyes disappeared as Cobra placed the sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose. Though the orbs were not visible, he could still send a menacing glare through the lenses. Chuck and Ted leaned back, a bit of panic twitching in their faces, as Cobra stared them down. "A stretch?"

"Well…" Chuck surrendered quickly. Cobra grunted and, from the tree line, gave the house's exterior another look. The half that had slid down the cliff face was a jumbled mess, and charred beams of lumber jutted out like the tree trunks of the jungle behind it. Still, even in such chaos, Cobra sensed the indescribable warmth of the home, and saw in his mind the young girl playing with her little blue friend while her older sister scrambled to keep a pot from boiling over on the stove. _Determined to make it work._ He sighed as more ash fell onto his darkened lenses.

"What do we do now?" squawked Chuck. Cobra turned to watch the hazmat suits bumble around in utter confusion. He huffed and reached into the tree line, smacking a pile of dust from its lush perch. It fiercely retaliated against Cobra's black suit jacket, but the new smudges did little to stop the energy surging through the agent.

"What're ya doin'!" shouted Ted as the miasma passed by his plastic hood.

Cobra stared into the jungle. _What happened here?_ _What am I missing_? The agony of ignorance had tortured him as he had picked through the remains of the house on the hill. Now, with the wind shifting, the question in his mind changed — altered by a small sandal shoe print and the promise, however vague and ethereal, of an end to ignorance. _What have I found?_ He kicked away a broken frond, which crunched with a sickly sound as he passed the tree line. "Finding them."

Two hazmat suits scrambled after the man dressed in black tearing through the jungle brush.

#


	12. Chapter 11 - Sink or Swim

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 11_

 _Sink or Swim_

Twilight had settled in when Reuben stopped to prepare his camp. A few feet off the road sat some recently felled palm trees, fresh sap leaking out of their slightly charred corpses. He constructed a rudimentary lean-to from their trunks and palm leaves in advance of an impending rainstorm, and crawled into the hovel right when the clouds began their bombardment of droplets directed at his shelter. He resignedly accepted that there would be no fire for now.

He closed his eyes and slowly rolled his neck around, releasing knots of pent-up frustration in his muscles. The rain pattered on the palm leaves, loud and heavy drops that he found oddly soothing. He took the time afforded by his impromptu break to reminisce on his day of searching. Though he grudgingly admitted his cousin possessed a far superior tracking ability, he did not consider himself a slouch. Reuben had wandered along the coast, sticking to the more easily distinguishable roads, and staying well back from any cliff edge as he explored. He had looked in the dirt for prints, climbed a tree or two for a better view, wrestled with brush. The activity of the day had worn him down, and finding no one drained him further.

A sigh passed his lips. His eyes opened. _At least there's a better view here_. This side of the island appeared to have been mostly spared from the worst of the attack. The roads he had encountered were passable, bordered on one side by ocean and cliffs, and by thick unfettered foliage on the other. No fine layer of ash hid the flamboyant greens, yellows, purples, and reds of the jungle plants here. Animals scurried about the brush, accompanied by a few seagulls soaring overhead. He breathed in the cool, humid air, freshly cleansed in the rain, absorbing the desperately needed serenity.

The mental blockades he had erected during the day were crumbling in the face of the peace he found in his lean-to. Not longer hindered by protective walls, his thoughts stampeded into the events of the previous evening. He closed his eyes again, replaying the attack. Reuben saw the lasers and the explosions, and heard the screaming in his head. He hated it. He swiftly tried to rebuild the walls. Crimson bolts flew. Beach erupted. Buildings liquefied. His heart beat so fast, he feared he would pass out. The images looped. Stuttered breathing punctured the blanket of calm over the campsite.

 _Think about breathing. "_ In and out…in and out…" he mouthed.

It took several minutes, but the breathing regulation technique distracted his mind long enough for him to reseal the mental walls with the mortar of memory. He remembered the main street, the homely buildings bathed in the pinks and magentas of an incredibly early morning. He dragged along the ground, too lethargic to avoid the bumps and divots in the clay and brick. His cousin chattered away, all too pleasant at beating the sun to today.

"Why we gotta be gettin' up this early, man? Can't the waves wait for a bit?"

" _Naga_! Waves good now!" Blue paws wrapped around the edges of a slender cigar-shaped bamboo contraption with a fin sticking from its rear. A string wrapped its way around the board and tied itself around Stitch's ankle. Reuben had seen the humans riding atop this thing, fleeing from humongous ocean waves that, without fail, caught and dragged them under a foamy crest. There was a gleam in Stitch's eyes, a gleam Reuben knew had been taken from Gantu's eyes when the captain, without fail, returned to his ship without an experiment in tow.

"I dunno, champ. You sure you can do this alone? Thought we were suppose'a be stayin' away from water 'n' all."

"It _oketaka_. _Meega_ learn to swim!" A middle arm snuck out from Stitch's side and paddled the air. Reuben stifled his giggle at the silly gesture. _Ya never were_ _meant for the water_ , he contemplated telling his cousin. It was a truth Stitch knew, but even so, he had for years been returning to the surf, typically with a human in tow. Reuben figured that once their cousins had found their places, Stitch had decided to focus some effort on exorcising his aquatic demons. _Too bad it's just nature,_ Reuben nearly said aloud. He bit his lip to stop the words, hoping his cousin would not notice.

Fortunately, Stitch was more interested in the approaching beach, and the ocean whitecaps crashing into sandbars. "Ah, _morcheeba_ , good tide." Blue legs hustled onto the beach, the bamboo headpiece bouncing as Stitch hopped over the little beach dunes.

Reuben was going to pick up his pace, but as his goldenrod feet sank into the sand chilled by predawn, he grew content in letting Stitch outrun him. After several months of living with his cousins, he had begun to understand how Gantu had continued to lose out to Stitch. _How determined_ , Reuben had commented quietly whenever Stitch went on another run around the island to check up on his many cousins. Reuben recognized that something special existed there. _Something Gantu could never get_.

Stitch used those middle arms to paddle out through the breaking surf. Reuben reached the sopping sand of the shoreline by the time Stitch passed the farthest sandbar. A goldenrod rear plunked down into a soaked cushion. Small chills rolled up his spine, but he ignored them while watching his cousin stand up on the bamboo board and slice through a curling wall of water. Reuben let the laugh spill out, and even took to cheering a bit as Stitch finished a run by tumbling from the board into the foamy sea. _How very determined_.

Reuben watched as the foam dissipated, the sea drawing back to unleash another wave on the island. He bobbed his head around, scanning the distance for the buoy that was Stitch's bulbous nose. Reuben's cheer dropped in pitch to a low moan as the next wave passed over Stitch's wipeout point. Reuben rose from his cushion, clumps of wet sand dropping from his tail, as the second wave passed by.

"Hey, cuz!" he shouted into the sea. As the third wave rolled, Reuben jumped up and down, frantically searching for his cousin. While in the air, a sudden pang of envy for Gantu's formidable height struck, a pang Reuben pushed aside as he scrambled toward the water's edge. "Cuz!"

Reuben dipped a toe into the water, but leapt back immediately and nursed his frigid digit. He hopped down the coastline, shouting for his cousin. Several more waves passed. With no one around, Reuben decided he should sprint back into town and find help, a decision his prodigious gut protested. "He needs my help!" he screamed at the uncooperative body part, which easily surrendered. As he wound up to run, his thin ears picked up something dancing across the choppy ocean.

The tune drew his gaze back to the watery horizon. He concentrated on the melody, something familiar-yet he could not place it. It surfed over the cresting waves in a sweet harmony. Finally, Reuben spotted the bulbous nose poking up from the surface. The humming escalated until Stitch plodded onto the sopping sand. The bamboo board trailed, still tethered to the blue ankle.

"Are ya kiddin' me, cuz! Whad'ya doin' out there!"

Stitch shrugged. "Surf."

"Surf? That's it?"

" _Ih_."

"Y'know, if something woulda happened, what was I gonna tell her, huh? Imagine me explaining that one! You coulda died out there!"

" _Naga. Meega_ learn to swim. Told you so."

Reuben blinked. He had expected his usual mellowness to take hold by now, yet he felt something deep in his gut burn at the sight of Stitch alive. _I'm…glad. Relieved. Angry maybe?_ A confused Reuben took a few deep breaths, inhaling the salty sea evaporating off of a soaked Stitch. "Yeah, guess so. But, I'm not feelin' like pressin' our luck. C'mon cuz, let's get outta here."

" _Ih. Goobaja._ "

As they left the beach, bamboo board casting an inflating shadow with the rising sun, Reuben stared at his cousin. _Nature never could stop him._ Defiant dark eyes reflected the light of the new morning. _How determined_. They had reached the end of the beach when Reuben felt compelled to ask, "By the way, were you singin' out there?"

Stitch froze. "Uh…." Reuben waited patiently as water evaporated from Stitch's sapphire fur. A goldenrod foot tapped against the clay and brick of a town road. Stitch's wide dark eyes gleamed, and he began furiously waving at a random building toward the center of town. " _Goocha,_ Sparky! _Iki bah bah_ , cousin, say hi!"

From its far-off precipice, the lighthouse's beam swept past the road. Reuben chuckled as Stitch continued his charade in the serene silence of the town at dawn. _How very determined._ He looked to the sky again, and the sun had set.

With the present returning, Reuben again sat in makeshift tranquility. The tent stood firm against the soggy Kaua`i night. The memory had settled Reuben into a more natural mellowness - which is when he finally heard the soft crunch of boots on wet jungle floor. He ignored the initial shock, instead turning his ears around to pinpoint the sound's location. The veritable torrent currently inundating the area posed a significant challenge. _I'm not as good at it as Stitch_ … _but I'm damn better than any human_. His first contact with a being since the attack ended, and he would find them first.

Once he adjusted his hearing, Reuben determined that the crunches were moving in his direction at a steady pace. _Okay, this guy's walking_ \- _toward me_. The relaxation in his body ebbed and tension flowed in at a high tide as mysterious footfalls closed in. He tried to tease an answer from the sounds the boots made, but had no luck. _It's times like these when I could use my cuz._ Stitch had an uncanny ability to pick up on the softest whisper of sound, and deconstruct it to gain every possible bit of information. Reuben greatly envied that ability, especially now.

With the walker striding toward Reuben's hut, options for his next move played through his head. He could run away deeper into the jungle, but the light having long succumbed to the oppressive onslaught of night, he figured that to be unwise at best. He was already hiding, and since the campsite was built in the center of a small clearing, he would surely be discovered soon. No tall ferns or trees stood nearby to offer their protection. He knew there was nowhere better to go.

"Alright, let's plan for the worst," he muttered under his breath.

Crouched down in his lean-to, he brought his hands close to his face. His quivering claws shone even in the paltry moonlight that crept through the clouds. As the crunches grew louder, he coiled up near the rear of his lean-to, ready to pounce. His claws fully extended from goldenrod paws, primed for slicing and slashing. When he let them loose, they would do some serious damage.

The footfalls reached their crescendo right outside his sanctuary, then slammed into silence.

The unexpected quiet persisted for several seconds. Reuben could feel his leg muscles beginning to protest from their forced and awkward crouch. Claws clattered, yearning to strike.

As if a powerful gust had caught hold of them, the leaves flew off the top of the lean-to. Reuben was exposed to the elements once more. The rain had mostly abated, but small droplets still drizzled from the sky, coating him with a watery sheen. He found himself frozen to the earth, unable to initiate an attack. Instead of launching a flurry of claws at the stranger, he could only stare at the hulking mass outlined in the waxing moonlight.

It would take several Reubens to match its height, and it probably outweighed him by a factor of ten. In the pale light of the full moon peeking through clouds, the armor that encased the creature seemed to shine, surprisingly so on account of its particular shade of gray. From on high, an opaque pane of glass stared down at him. Reuben guessed that to be the creature's helmet, and so did his level best to stare back into it. Claws still clattered, unable to move.

After an agonizingly long few seconds, the creature executed a barely perceptible nod. The blur jumped out from behind him. Reuben had no time to react before his world went completely dark. His claws finally and ineffectually swung at blackness. A plastic zipping noise vibrated through the canvas prison.

Reuben heard some indiscriminate chatter in several tones and pitches, and concluded that putting him in the bag had been a team effort. He swung harder. "Hey, what the hell! Lemme out!" he berated the strange gray creature. His body seemingly levitated as one of his captors picked the bag up off the ground. Reuben kept swinging at darkness.

An odd, cackling, tinny voice sliced through the canvas walls. "Experiment Six-Two-Five?"

His mind was still occupied by his claws' actions. He barely heard the words. The voice squealed once more. "Experiment Six-Two-Five?"

"Who wants ta know!"

The tinny voice made an atrocious scratching sound. Reuben needed a few moments to figure out it was laughter. "Oh yes, you are Experiment Six-Two-Five." The laugh died away as ominous words seeped through the bag. "There is someone who will be pleased to meet you."

#


	13. Chapter 12 - Recalcitrant Rill

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 12_

 _Recalcitrant Rill_

Night had fallen across the island. Sheets of rain cloaked weak moonlight in streaks of gray. The road he traveled had transformed into a muddy quagmire. As he slogged through soupy puddles and dodged rivulets flowing over the cliff's edge, Stitch searched ahead with night-vision-powered eyes, hoping to scrounge up a trace of Reuben, Angel, or anyone else. After a full day of fruitlessly overturning every rock for a sign of survival, a frightful notion crept into his mind. _I might be it_ , he courted the mordant thought before it fled along the darkened road. His mind followed quickly behind.

The buildings of the town had looked calm at daybreak. The early morning sun had dried his sapphire fur. His arms, still a bit tired from paddling back to shore, complained at hoisting the longboard over his head. It had bumped his ears as Stitch had run through the quiet town, running from Reuben's prying questions.

"I just wanna know if you were singin' back there, man…c'mon!"

The tune had carried spectacularly well over the ocean. Apparently more nervous in the water than he had thought, Stitch had given his melody a tad too much power, and the bars had reached thin and tapered ears on the beach. As Reuben had started digging, Stitch had run after a figment of his imagination, frenetically waving an arm at a pretend Sparky. His desperate bid to avoid his cousin's queries faltered with every sweep of the lighthouse's steady beam.

"It wasn't that bad, cuz! Had a good ring to it!" Reuben's voice amplified as the distance between them increased. Stitch could easily outpace his cousin, even while attached to a bamboo ball and chain. The main street was deserted, cool dirt waiting for morning tourist feet to scramble through the town. The longboard was now tucked under an arm, the sunlit wood warm against his torso. Stitch cut down an alleyway between two shops set along the main street, careful to keep the sides of the board from smacking into windows and siding and alerting the townsfolk to his presence.

"Hey champ, wait… _huff_ …wait up!"

Keen ears perked up at Reuben's shouted pleas. The sun was still low in the sky, but shopkeepers would soon be throwing open their windows to peddle their wares. The lighthouse beam passed overhead. Stitch stopped and watched the intense column of energy weave its way through the brightening sky crowded with shacks and rooftops. _Sparky's done well_. When Reuben shouted again, Stitch looked back down the alleyway. The tips of his fur detected the faintest quiver of awakening in the air, with the sounds of his cousin possibly rousing townsfolk from slumber. Stitch released a drawn-out sigh, then set the board down flush against one of the shop's walls and waited for Reuben to catch up.

Reuben required a little more time to catch his breath, but ragged pulls did eventually smooth out. "Well, glad I caught ya! Won't ask 'bout the singin', don't worry — lost interest right when I started runnin'… _oof_." Hands on knees, Reuben crouched. Stitch extended a genial hand meant for support, but Reuben eased it away. "Nah, it's… _ah_ , it's all good, cuz. So, uh, now what?"

A low rumble shook the walls bordering the alleyway. It was a ravenous sound, clamoring to escape onto the dusty main road. Stitch's fast hands did their best to contain the source, but his stomach made its demands clear. "Time to eat!"

"Yep, sounds like it. Well, ya took us downtown, so I guess we could—" Reuben's voice trailed off as a glimmer took hold in his eyes. Stitch knew what would be next, and used those fast hands to attempt to dissuade his cousin. But Stitch trying to wave off Reuben only fanned the glimmer, until a conflagration had erupted in wide dark eyes. "That ol' hag'll never know—trust me! And you know that watermelon sounds _delicious_ …ain't that right, stomach?"

Despite Stitch's concerted efforts to quiet it, his stomach loudly agreed. Stitch thought of Hasagawa's shop down the road, his mind teasing him with watermelon rinds glistening with dew. The hunger nearly had him agree right away with his stomach. "I… _naga_ , we shouldn't…."

"C'mon, man. Gotta do somethin' a _little_ bad today, yeah?"

Stitch glanced up at the sky. The lighthouse beam no longer swept past the town. Sunlight flooded over the rooftops, spilling along the edges of the alleyway. The sunlight would soon reach his domed room. Light would flow through the glass windows and settle on her drawing of him, white and crimson in eternal struggle. _Good and bad._ Still cloaked in the shadow of two shops, Stitch shivered, sending a few errant droplets of ocean flying. "But _meega_ not bad…."

"Ah, poor choice of words. Sorry man, still a little—winded. It's not bein' _bad_ , but...y'know, let's call it _adventurous._ Like the old days. Sounds like fun, yeah?"

He could hear Lilo berating him in his head as he agreed with Reuben and tied his board to a pipe running along the shop's exterior. Her stern look of disapproval followed the duo from the alleyway to the watermelon stalls, with fruit as shiny and plump as Stitch had imagined. She drew him again with a splash more of crimson once he sunk claws into one watermelon's side, spraying juice onto the chilled dirt road. They had absconded to the beach with their prize in tow long before the elderly shopkeeper had ventured outside.

The rind split apart, revealing sweet and supple flesh that Stitch savored. The sun would climb higher in the sky, and the beach would begin to fill with eager tourists, by the time his stomach was sated. Out of one eye, he watched Reuben expertly slice apart the melon with his claws and then sloppily bite into huge wedges, messing up goldenrod fur. Dribbles and seeds littered the sand as they laughed.

"Oh, next time, we should invite the others. I'm sure a couple'a 'em would get a kick outta this."

Belly full, Stitch reclined in the Kaua`i sand. " _Ih. `Ohana_ hungry, too. I think."

"Hah, yeah, prob'ly would be, given all that work they been doin'." Reuben stretched out his stocky legs. "Good ta see they been takin' to it all so well."

Stitch nodded. " _`Ohana_ is strong here. Work well together."

"Yep, very true." The conflagration in Reuben's eyes had burned out, the blaze no longer twisting with hunger or mischief. Yet, some minute embers still smoldered. Stitch stared into dark pools, and saw the remnants of flame transformed by a different passion.

 _`Ohana is strong._

"And don't worry 'bout the _bad_ thing, cuz. It's all fine."

Stitch leapt out of Reuben's eyes and gazed at his stomach. He worried. Stitch clattered his claws as he thought of her, furiously redrawing her diagram. White and crimson battled on a page. "Lilo won't be happy…."

"Nah, ya worry too much! She'll be fine —she might even get a kick outta it." Reuben faced the throngs of beachgoers who were milling near the shoreline. The young and precocious predawn waves had aged into regular disturbances on the ocean surface. The sun high above had dried out the watermelon rind, the shriveling husk shrinking into the sand. Stitch's goldenrod cousin chuckled breathily. " But either way—not bad for an adventure these days, eh champ?"

Relief was not forthcoming, but Stitch allowed himself a smile. His stomach gurgled in pleasant satiety. The throngs of beachgoers excited the air, sending the page fluttering from his care. Stitch sat back and admired the scene, watching as Reuben laid down and began to snore. _Not too bad at all._

The sheet of rain pummeling the wounded island had thinned. Stitch thought of the remains of the watermelon, left out on the hot sand when the beach had grown too crowded for him. A low rumble emanated from his stomach. The sound chased him as he continued down the darkened path.

He wished he could share that sound with his cousins, along with sharing the sweet and supple flesh of the fruit. He glanced up into the palm fronds, half-expecting a few sets of eyes to track him, and a couple friendly paws to wave. He nearly fell into a deep puddle hogging the road as he stared into empty trees. He drew in a deep breath, and was able to extract a bit of joy from the cleansed island air. _`Ohana is strong_ , Stitch reaffirmed a distracted—and somewhat recalcitrant— mind _._

As the rain further abated, a deeper and lower rumble eclipsed Stitch's stomach and took hold of the still night air. Ripples formed in the puddles he was stepping over. He noticed a black shape hovering over the ocean several miles out, but covering ground quickly with a bearing toward his location. Automatically, he dove for cover under fern fronds which lined the road, landing smack dab in the muddiest puddle on the island.

" _Choota!_ " he cursed under his breath. He crawled out of the mess and into a drier patch of tall grass, banking on the remaining rain to wash away the grime from his coat. His deliberate movements kept the grass from swaying too much and betraying his position. He inched forward, time passing slowly, until he finally found himself at the edge of a clearing. Three hundred feet ahead of him, the black shape hovered just off the ground. The slowing rain still confounded his night vision, but he could make out a dropship of some kind. It had a sleek shaped front and pointed wings, a common feature on ships that perform regular atmospheric descents. Beyond that, the rest of the craft was rather boxy, lacking any real aesthetic quality. When he squinted, the craft gave the impression that it had been glued together out of spare parts. Pieces jutted out from the body in a chaotic mess reminiscent of a time Stitch had tried to rebuild one of Lilo's records he had shattered while horsing around.

A door swung open and four hulking creatures jumped out of the craft. With the night vision filter on, colors were nondescript, but he could definitely pick out their hefty pieces of armor. He was much shorter than them and probably nowhere near as heavy. In their hands rested long and chunky rifles. A faint light smoldered within each chamber.

They approached the border of the clearing and formed a square forty feet to a side. They all faced outward into the tall grass with weapons raised. _They're looking for something. Or someone,_ Stitch reasoned _._ He flattened his body and crept back a few feet to avoid detection.

He waited for a few minutes so that he could observe the creatures. The Council had provided him with an index of galactic species when he — for an incredibly short time — took command of the Galactic Armada. Stitch had memorized every page. The creatures ahead resembled none within his mental catalog. Although they were the first living beings Stitch had found since the attack, their smoldering guns suggested that they were not interested in talking, and they did not look like things Stitch wanted to fight head-on.

Ahead of him lay the ship. _If they don't want to talk, then maybe the ship will have something for me._ There would be databanks aboard. He might be lucky enough to figure out the creatures' identities or why his island was attacked.

He visually scoured the field for a way to penetrate the tightly managed square. Twenty-five feet to his left, a peninsula of grass protruded several yards into the clearing, which would conceal him from the vigilant guards on that side of the square. From there, it would be a straight shot toward the open dropship door. He slinked his way over to the peninsula, careful not to disturb the tall blades of Kaua`i bluegrass.

Once positioned right at the peninsula's tip, he readied himself for the run. _Okay. One shot at this._ Fear chilled his blood. His heart pounded. A few shaky breaths to steady himself.

He darted from the grass, barely rustling the blades. In a dead sprint, he figured he could clear the gap in under fifteen seconds. He dared not look at the armored creatures as he ran, but he listened intently through the wind as it whistled past his ears, praying for the gentle patter of rain rather than panicked shouting or weapons fire.

It took him twelve seconds to reach the open dropship door. Not bothering to break stride, he leapt into the waiting craft. Momentum carried him forward, and he crashed into the inside wall of the ship and rebounded onto the floor. As he lay on the dropship's bottom to catch his breath, he perked up his ears to catch any sign the creatures had learned of his entry. Unexpectedly, the rain was pouring again, and the wind had graduated to gale-force proportions. After pausing with bated breath for thirty seconds, and hearing no indication that his cover was blown, he righted himself and headed toward the cockpit.

The interior of the craft was plainly decorated. Sixteen seats were suspended a few inches off the ground and bolted into the ceiling. Implanted into the walls were several armory lockers, one of which had been relieved of its weaponry. The one and only aisle led through an entryway into the cockpit. The pilot's chair was connected to the floor and appeared to be able to swivel, so that the pilot could consult the battery of instrument panels and screens that glowed on several consoles. Stitch noticed the conspicuous absence of a co-pilot's chair, and briefly wondered if that was a deliberate choice or a reckless oversight of the designers.

Stitch hopped up into the pilot's chair and waved his hand over the nearest panel. A holographic display materialized several inches above the panel. Strange symbols scrolled through the display. They appeared to form words, but Stitch did not recognize the syllabary. He tried waving his hands over a few other panels scattered around the cockpit. While some did nothing at all, most produced the same symbols strutting about on holographic displays. He ate up several minutes furiously trying to make sense of gibberish. _It was bad enough with English, but this?_ Deflated and frustrated, he rotated the chair around to stare down the main aisle.

The ship's drab interior did nothing to spark inspiration. Grays and blacks covered the walls and ceiling. Rainwater that flew through the open door had been pooling in the middle of the ship. A tiny rill split off the sizable puddle and edged its way down the aisle, where it collided with the rear wall of the ship. Stitch wished he could float away on a stream like that, to leave everything behind. _So close to an answer…._ He shut his eyes tightly. Hands clenched the chair's armrest, which groaned and snapped under his overbearing force. The anguish of the previous night curdled in his gut. Tentacles emerged from deep within and constricted his body.

 _No. Can't break here._ He commanded his hands to let go. He fought to center himself. Several deep breaths later, the tentacles' stranglehold eased. He let his eyes fall open. The rill had widened, allowing more water to journey to the back of the ship, where it declined to pool against the rear wall.

 _Where's the water?_ Stitch jumped out of the seat and hustled astern. He scanned the length of the rear wall to locate the spot where the pool of water should have been forming. The rill insisted on flowing straight, unnerved by such a paltry inconvenience as a solid metal barrier. Stitch walked to the middle and pressed his hand against the steel, and fell right through it.

The image of the wall fluttered for a few seconds before settling back into form. Stitch gawked incredulously at the full-size hologram. _A false wall? Why?_ As he spun around to examine the compartment, the reason became evident. Four empty cubes were recessed into the sides of the ship. He approached one of them, with sides made of many cylindrical iron bars, with an odd blue glow wrapping around each beam. He reached out to touch it, but a faint hum of electricity gave him pause. _Containment cells._ Stitch was surprised by their presence on a dropship, and then wondered who would burden themselves with the rather obscene expense needed to retrofit a dropship into a concealable prison.

In the middle of his cursory investigation, Stitch caught some squawking from outside the ship. Several pitches and tones exchanged gibberish. He figured it must be the creatures communicating with one another. _And they're close!_ He had no time to bolt through the door and back onto the island. With maybe a few seconds left until they all boarded the ship, he ducked behind the containment cell farthest from the holographic wall. A few crates stacked against the rear cast favorable shadows for his hideaway.

The floor shook as each creature hopped into the vessel. Stitch could hear them strapping into the chairs while still yapping nonsense. None had ventured through the fake partition by the time their noise died down. Stitch heard the outer door pop and snap as it formed its airtight seal. A low rumble of thrusters filled the cabin.

As the ship gently lifted off the ground, Stitch began to fret. He would be leaving the island without finding Reuben, or Angel, or any of his cousins. He would be leaving them behind. _Not leaving. Going to find answers. For them. For my `ohana._

His stomach growled, a hushed sound in the secret prison. The watermelon rinds glistened with dew. Dribbles and seeds littered the beach as they laughed. ` _Ohana is strong._ Stitch hunkered down as the dropship rose into the sky.

#


	14. Chapter 13 - Den of Thieves

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 13_

 _Den of Thieves_

"What do you mean _gone_!"

"Vanished. Nobody can find her. She just disappeared." The operator turned away from Gantu and sprinted back to his station, now illuminated by brand new alarms. The running lights encircling the bridge dimmed, and a ring of scarlet warning lights flashed brilliantly overhead. The main view screen that occupied the entirety of the curving front wall announced the _Red Alert_ status to the workers scrambling about in a near panic.

The admiral sensed a rustling by his ankle, and watched burnt orange skin disappear from his side. At a confident clip that surprised Gantu, Te'sudu stormed onto the command dais at the center of the bridge. He passed the empty captain's chair. Gantu deduced the pilot's goal. _With the captain gone, the executive officer would be in command_. Another operator pointed Te'sudu to him, a timid and shaking mint-green saurian creature barely larger than Te'sudu who was huddled against the long range sensor station. The pitch black pinholes that qualified as the XO's eyes sped across the output from the developing scans.

"How could she disappear like th-that? It's n-not possible!" His rapier tail whipped back and forth in time with the evident and climbing panic entering his confused mutterings. Te'sudu managed to dodge the flailing appendage and come up to the XO's side.

"Sir, are you in command?" he inquired. The eyes sped faster across the emptiness of the fully processed long-range scan. Te'sudu tried again, much louder this time. " _Sir_ , are you in command!"

The officer stirred. The beady pinholes found Te'sudu. "Um…I-I am, yes," the XO stammered in a nasally pitch. He nearly toppled over as he came to attention. "Com-mander Strychim, _UGF_ _A-Adesa_."

Gantu cringed as the commander's terror-tinged squeals cut through the air. A moment of pity lingered before rage claimed its stake. _The captain is gone. Why is he not taking charge? He needs to be assertive! Take command!_ Gantu's mind bellowed at the commander through narrowed eyes. Gantu's aggressive style of leadership, vexing for several of his direct subordinates in the past, screamed to dominate. Gantu obliged.

He strode to the commander and leaned his massive body deep into Strychim's personal space. A guttural sound clambered from his throat. "Commander. Where is your captain?" Each word weighed heavily on Gantu's tongue.

Sheer terror radiated from pinhole eyes. Commander Strychim shrank back from Gantu's hulking mass and meekly offered a response. "I-I-I … I don't know, s-sir."

Gantu leaned in further. His heated breath puffed across the commander's blunt nose, rose along a ridge to the top of his scaly head, and rebounded onto Gantu. "What happened to your captain, Commander?" Contempt dripped off the syllables.

Strychim gulped. He opened his mouth, but only for his voice to abandon him. A tremor seized his lanky hands, which grabbed each other to steady the shaking. After a moment, the XO drew in a trembling breath, and robotically laid out his story.

"Captain M'Saliti was present on the ship when we left our port at Turo's Orbital Docking Station. Once our ship had exited Turo space proper, she gave the conn to me and e-excused herself from the bridge. A short time later, an unauthorized fighter launch was detected from a forward bay.

"Active targeting systems came online as I tr-tried unsuccessfully to hail the vessel. Our forward laser batteries were tr-trained on the ship when it engaged its onboard hyperdrive module. An all-hands search of the _Adesa_ led us to c-conclude our captain was no longer aboard the ship. Long range scanners have been working to calculate the trajectory of the ship as it entered hyperspace and then plot possible destinations. But for n-now, we believe our captain to have … deserted."

Gantu reeled at the revelation, though he took great pains to hide it from the sad creature relaying his tale. He knew Captain Enkada M'Saliti, first officially meeting her when he ceremoniously turned over the _Adesa_ to her. She was a tall and slender woman, elegant with her strikingly white skin. She reminded Gantu of someone else important to him, yet M'Saliti possessed a grace that was uniquely hers. Like one of the many felines he saw on Kaua`i, she could slink into a room unnoticed, and almost immediately, snap ferociously on anyone unlucky enough to stand in her way, her alluring contralto suddenly striking with finely honed claws. All her faculties, though, had always been directed toward the Federation's benefit.

"Deserted? Why?"

Strychim's eyes fell to the floor. His voice fell to a whisper. "That's th-the story I'm telling the crew. S-senior staff, though, think that that agents of the C-Coalition, or Federation t-turncoats, have infiltrated the _Adesa_ crew, s-sir, and they took her."

"What!" Gantu shouted before Strychim pleaded for quiet. Gantu then murmured, "Why would they take her?" _Who could take her?_ Her legendarily perfect record in sparring duels begged the question.

"W-we think they forced her, but as for why, w-we don't know."

Gantu leered at the officer. _Forcing her? Unlikely_ , his mind scoffed. _But the part about Coalition agents…_ he mulled. He took a step back from Strychim, whose pinhole eyes weaved across Gantu's uniform. The admiral felt the fabric constrict, and he took a moment to breathe, almost overwhelmed by the revelations of the XO. The bridge began to melt away, and he watched as threads of memory sewed themselves across his outfit.

The Admiralty Room on Turo was extraordinarily uncomfortable, and his suit did nothing to help. Admiral Gantu tugged on the cardinal red sleeve. Even after several cleaning cycles, the threads had remained stiff and unforgiving. His arm had fattened, making the sleeve a snugger fit. It bulged when he shifted in his chair set around the Turan chalkwood table, the wood an incredibly deep and rich brown devouring the light in the meeting room. The other admirals appeared as uncomfortable as he felt —or perhaps they were weary from the hour-long questioning of their guest. Gantu grunted and pulled on the uniform as his friend, Admiral Toobihya, desperately tried to close the convening.

"Now Captain, we've been over this several times now. I _know_ you care deeply about your soldiers — we all do. But—"

"But not enough to pay them fairly. Right, Admiral?"

It had been some time since Gantu had formally instated Captain Enkada M'Saliti to helm the _Adesa_. The Council's anointed flagship had been through rough times, made rougher still by the recent Coalition push and the concurrent drain on the Federation's budget. The other admirals had wanted to continue slashing her ship's financial support, a move she did not particularly seem to appreciate. In the cramped room, her normally alluring contralto had only taken on a slight tinge of disagreeableness, no doubt a result of the exceedingly long questioning period.

"Captain, sadly, this _is_ fair. We most certainly cannot pay wages to only _your_ crew whilst leaving behind many others—"

"That's not what I'm asking for—"

"But it's what you want!" One of the other admirals slammed down a meaty mauve fist. Money was always a heated topic in the Admiralty Room, with admirals constantly baying for funding for their myriad pet projects. Those meetings stood on the fringes of acceptable decorum. Yet when a non-admiral was involved in the discussion, Gantu had learned, civility left the room rather hastily and in a great huff. He tried to get Toobihya's attention, to push for a recess, but the shot had already left the barrel.

"Sir, I am here to vouch for _my_ soldiers, those under _my_ command, but that does _not_ exclude the others who fight to keep our Federation in one piece."

"Yet your crew seems to be the most unwilling to fight for the Federation, Captain," insinuated another admiral. "So far, we've seen reports of five squadrons of defectors this cycle—five! And we've heard grumblings that there are more to come…this is simply unacceptable."

She was quick to return fire. "If we could feed them and their families, they wouldn't be so inclined to—"

"Yet money should be of no consequence, Captain! They've taken an oath to their duties."

"An oath can't bake bread, Admiral." She gave a small smirk. Gantu knew she would eventually regret that smirk.

"Bread…hmph! Your soldiers certainly have no issue there. We've poured an unbelievable amount of capital into your ship, and for what! They turn tail and run at the slightest provocation. There's no, no honor there. I mean, what are you running on that ship? Some…some sort of den of thieves? It's atrocious, Captain!"

Ever since he had stood with her on the _Adesa's_ bridge, M'Saliti's iridescent irises had captivated Gantu. They would shift through an almost impossible assortment of colors, a shimmering that was absolutely breathtaking under the austere lights of a starship's bridge. Those irises would pop and stir, with a vibrancy and vitality as incredible as their owner's. In that room, Gantu watched those irises pop and stir, then seethe and boil. The one admiral's comment had obviously struck a nerve, and Gantu's hands clenched on the lip of the table in anticipation of the hellfire she was bound to unleash.

"'Hold up there, everyone!" Toobihya's prehensile trunk joined his hands in halting the action. Gantu breathed a quite audible sigh of relief. "Let's keep it clean! Tell ya what, how about a short recess? I think that'd be best for all of us." Harrumphs of agreement, and the entirety of the table rose and disappeared from sight. Toobihya was the last to exit, grumbling about finding a stiff drink. Only Gantu and M'Saliti sat at the rich Turan chalkwood table, reclining into their plush and excruciating chairs.

With a start, M'Saliti nearly leapt from her chair as iridescent irises rested on Gantu. Her contralto was laced with deep concern. "Admiral Gantu, please…you understand this, right? Out of any of them, you know what we face."

He tried his best not to be pulled into those irises, instead focusing on his intractable sleeve. "I do, Captain. I share your pain. But this…board, and the Council, they don't view it as we do."

"Hmph, because they've never been in the field, right?"

"I—I think it's more than that. The Federation is big, Captain. A lot of people to pay. They're just trying to keep all of this afloat."

"And is that how the Coalition thinks? About line items, and balancing budgets! To simply keep it all _afloat_!" She slammed a strikingly white fist down on the rich and deep chalkwood. A few moments of silence would pass before she seemed to realize what she had done. Iridescent irises cooled, but only slightly. "Apologies, Admiral. It's…frustrating, is all."

Gantu chuckled. "No need for apologies, Captain. I've lost my temper with several pieces of furniture over this very same debate."

Her laugh was even more alluring than her voice. Between that and the current harmony of green, blue, and orange in her irises, he had to lean far back to stay in his own head. She ended the laugh with a graceful yet coy smile. "Ah, yes, I suppose it happens to us all. Thank you, Admiral Gantu, for sharing that with me. I feel marginally better." She pulled back a bit, and then started to wring her long and gracile hands. "I simply wish there were some way I could help them all. I can't lose any more to the Coalition. So many have left already, and I don't know who is considering it now."

"And you never will, Captain. All you can do is give them some reason to stay—something that's taken me a long while to appreciate."

"Oh, Admiral, I've heard a few inspirational stories here and there. You're a great leader, if a bit…terse sometimes. But yes, I understand where you're coming from. I'll do what I must to keep the _Adesa_ whole." She paused as knocking noises floated in from behind the door. "Oh, and for the record, we are _not_ a den of thieves."

With a breathy chuckle, Gantu winked as the door gave way, and the noise spilled into the cramped room. Toobihya had reentered with a beverage dripping with condensation and pink jowls drooping in satiety. The other admirals lugubriously laid back into their seats, and as Toobihya started again, Gantu slipped and fell into iridescent irises of yellow, red, and indigo.

As Gantu returned to the bridge of the _Adesa_ , with a quaking Strychim still awaiting a response, he thought of what M'Saliti had said. He had noted during that meeting, and many times afterward, that the Federation soldiers' imminent descents into poverty would logically lead to them seeking other ways to earn their living. _Why shouldn't_ _some of them take something on the side?_

That reasoning had led to Gantu's current and pervasive distrust of everyone and everything bearing the mark of the Federation. His skepticism extended to the XO of this ship, but for some reason, as the commander's pinhole eyes darted around the room, Gantu chose to believe that Strychim was still loyal to the true idea of the United Galactic Federation. _He seems honest enough. Too nervous to be a good spy,_ he mused.

"S-sir?" came the wavering voice. "H-how should we proceed?"

Straightening and brushing the creases from his uniform, he addressed Strychim in a hushed tone. "We will tread lightly, Commander. Continue your long range scans and map that trajectory. Block all outgoing communications, and call a meeting of senior officers. We'll suss out who knows what on this ship."

Relief passed over the commander's face. His hands hung steady. Glints of eagerness sparkled in the pinholes. "Aye, sir. We'll call the meeting one hour from now."

The commander's confident pose pleased Gantu. He wondered if he had prematurely pegged Strychim as weak-willed. _Maybe I just have that effect on people_. "And Commander, do try to take command of your bridge," he playfully smirked.

"Of course, s-sir. Right away." He crisply saluted Gantu and headed toward a bank of workstations in an attempt to corral the bridge crew. At a point during their conversation, the warning sirens had shut off. Bright lights illuminated the bridge once again.

Gantu looked back to Te'sudu and caught his anomalous look of puzzled awe. "What is it, pilot?"

"Nothing, sir. It's just…that was impressive. That guy was ready to call it quits and you talked him off the ledge. Without barking or yelling or anything like that. Rather—inspiring, if I say so myself."

Gantu believed he had done nothing more than address an officer of the Federation. Yet a warm feeling did smolder in his stomach. He allowed himself a long gaze around the bridge, and followed the staff as they toiled away. _This is not a den of thieves._ "Come on, Te'sudu. Let's scout some more of this ship. Maybe we can dig something up."

Te'sudu grinned at the admiral. "Aye, sir." The two of them walked back to the lift at the rear of the bridge. The air carried Strychim's strengthened—but still stuttering—commands to officers and bridge crew, even as the lift door sealed.

#


	15. Chapter 14 - Racing Blue

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 14_

 _Racing Blue_

Some time had passed since the ship had left the planet's surface. Stitch had trouble keep track of exactly how much time had slipped away. The running lights affixed along the internal spine of the ship had been extinguished immediately after lift-off. He had been forced to crouch silently in crushing dark as the ship jostled and weaved through his home's atmosphere.

He could not rest. At any moment, one of the soldiers in the ship's belly might wander into the cargo hold playing as a prisoner transport and out the stowaway. Though he had kept his mind amply distracted with thought and concern, his body had started throwing a tantrum. Small twitches coursed through his leg muscles and nerve endings whined — more pain to endure.

Stitch's mind spun with wild conjectures on who the creatures were, and why they had violated his adopted home world. To Stitch, their formidable gear and precisely executed formation in the Kaua`i bluegrass suggested some form of trained and organized military, yet his mental index came up empty when he tried to place them. _And a military would have objectives_ , he thought. _So what would theirs be?_

While lost in the question, he almost missed the deceleration of the craft. _We're stopping!_ he mentally cheered. Though he could not visually verify his location from the prisoner transport area, the weight shift of entering another ship's artificial gravity field was obvious enough. A loud popping noise resounded as the ship came to rest, followed by patters of hurried shuffling. Stitch tried to stand up, but his legs, which greatly desired revenge for their prolonged engagement, locked up. He toppled forward onto the cold steel floor.

" _Toobaga…_ " he cursed at his worthless limbs. He applied more willpower and defeated their attempted coup. Grudgingly acquiescing to his demands, the legs strained against burning muscle to prop up Stitch. With extreme prejudice, they let him walk around the cargo hold.

He headed right over to the holographic wall and hovered his ear an inch from its nonexistent surface. He searched for the faintest hint of occupants in the front cabin. After half a minute of silence, he was confident enough to step through the wall into an empty section. Not content to leave the ship without conducting a thorough search, he ransacked every locker, seat, bin and crate, looking for anything that could assist him. Overturning one bin produced three boots, which vaguely excited him, until he discovered they were all right-footed boots. Upon finding nothing of value, he gave a resigned shrug and sigh, then peeked his head out the open door.

The dropship had set down in a narrow docking bay — in fact, the craft had barely squeezed into its particular hold. Sister dropships rested frighteningly close to the left and right of where Stitch stood. _Three gray blocks._ He examined a bay that was painted in the same unappealingly bland gray as the dropship's interior. No ornamentation hung from the ceiling or projected from the walls. The austere surroundings sent a slight chill flitting down Stitch's back. Stitch carefully hopped down onto the frigid metal floor of the bay and crept over to the nearest door, set into the wall twenty paces away.

The door silently gave way. Stitch slipped through the portal and latched onto the side wall of the corridor. Specialized pads in his hands and feet activated, allowing him to adhere to the slick metallic surface—this power also resided quite high on his list. He scurried up to the top of the cylindrical thoroughfare and covered the short gap to the opposite door. It slid open without a fuss and he crawled into the adjoining room. From his vantage point on the ceiling, Stitch investigated the scene below.

A square room, barely larger than the dropship's central cabin, was immersed in a twilight of holographic display screens and blinking status diodes. Slanted view ports lined the side opposite his entry point. Banks of computers, brought alive by flashing lights and shrill beeps, lined the square. The four armor-clad monsters from the dropship were mulling about the area. Their squealing chatter sullied the air, and sent concurrent peals of discomfort ringing through Stitch's ears.

Computer banks buzzed as one of the creatures clattered through several sets of keystrokes. From the central console rose a holographic drawing of an unfamiliar planet—an unexciting ecru-hued spheroid. The creature at the console seemed pleased with the display and tapped it. The planet disappeared and the galaxy took its place. A red line drew itself from a small point on the outer rim of one arm to another section of the Milky Way pinwheel. Stitch recognized immediately what was about to happen.

 _I have to get off this ship!_

Moving faster but staying silent, he clambered his way back through the corridor and out into the docking bay. Stitch knew there was too much he had left undone back on Earth to leave the planet now, to be whisked away to another far-off world. He disengaged his footpads and fell to the deck. Once he landed, an alarm began blaring throughout the bay. He instinctively protected his ears with his hands, shocked by the oppressive volume of the strange siren. _What now!_

Squinting his eyes in pain, he scanned his vicinity for a route to escape from the noise. He ran over and tried to peel back one of the clamps that held onto the docked shuttles, but they were latched too tightly, even for his genetically-imbued strength. He looked toward the portal to space at the far end of the hangar, but a heavy bolt had secured the airlock door.

He went back toward the corridor entryway. The door hung open, and over the din of the siren, he could pick out distinct banging noises on the far side. The bay was sparsely populated with random objects, none of which were of adequate size to shield him fully. This time, legs complied as he skittered into the hall and up the wall once more. He flattened his warm body against the frigid ceiling and laid in wait.

The door flew open and three armored behemoths stormed into the hallway, guns hanging limply in their broad hands. They barreled along the path and into the shuttle bay, their garbled argot spilling from their helmets. Stitch watched as each explored a separate zone of the bay, grabbing at the randomly scattered objects. In a flash, the three had assembled a notable collection of trinkets, and were loading them onto one of the dropships with an admirable focus and intensity. Stitch observed the spectacle from the ceiling and once satisfied that they would not return his way for a few minutes, he inched forward, and was back in the control room.

A lone guard stood vigil over the central control console, markedly quieter compared to the next room over and its pain-inducing alarm. The creature's attention was locked onto a blizzard of data blowing across the console's screen. Below Stitch, a red light pulsated on a panel next to the door. Curiosity guided him as he slowly shimmied down the wall. He examined the red light, and found no indicators or markings as to its purpose. Undeterred, he snuck a final furtive glance to ensure the creature would not see him, and then he delicately hovered one paw over the panel.

Before he could press the tantalizing button, the door slammed shut and a lock clicked closed. It brought total silence to the control room, but the sound of the lock itself was unexpectedly violent. It drew the attention of the guard to its origin. Helmeted face met Stitch's eyes. Warbling erupted from the creature. It drew its sidearm from a holster on its right leg and aimed at the intruder.

With milliseconds to act, Stitch tensed his legs and pushed off the wall. Racing blue struck the shining gray armor. Stitch's body was constructed to deal hits of this nature, and he did not disappoint. Several hairline fractures spread like shattering glass from the impact point on the guard's breastplate. The weapon went spinning through the air as the creature toppled onto its back. His momentum discharged into his foe, Stitch fell flat onto the deck.

He scrambled back to his feet as the guard rolled on the floor, whimpering almost inaudibly. Stitch carefully stepped toward its head. Two prominent latches along the bottom of the helmet beckoned to be released. Stitch bent down and reached toward one. An arm shot up at the edge of his vision and grabbed furiously for his neck. Reacting on instinct, Stitch smashed his fist through the obscured faceguard. The arm fell limply to the side as the faceguard's coloring trembled. The electrochromatic glass shifted from gray to clear as the circuity failed.

Two bulbous eyes were sealed tight under nictitating membranes. Through the diaphanous material, Stitch could make out jaundiced eyeballs speckled with flecks of green, their slit pupils immobilized in the centers. An elongated nasal chamber extended right up to where the glass had been. A bruise was in its early phases of formation on the nose's tip. The mouth hung slightly ajar and a forked tongue dangled between rows of sharpened teeth. He could hear its ragged breathing, made harder as the bruise rapidly swelled. Its face was plated in large glistening emerald scales. A horned rim ran across the creature's brow and ended in a central protruding peak.

Stitch reached through the jagged hole in the faceguard and unlatched the helmet internally. He gently pried it free and then peered into its innards. Flickers of information teased from the glass pane. Interest piqued, he pinned back his ears and attempted to set the helmet on his own head. It dropped effortlessly into place, with plenty of room to spare. The helmet weighed significantly more than he had planned, and he stumbled momentarily. Once righted, he looked into the shattered faceguard.

Visual data sputtered in secluded spots. They appeared to be the same symbols he witnessed on the dropship's console screens. With the screen broken, Stitch figured that the helmet may respond to vocal cues, though there was no possible way for him to replicate their language. He surveyed the room for something that could help him, and dug around the humming machines. Several unfruitful minutes later, fuming from frustration, he unleashed a " _Bliznak!"_ aimed at the helmet.

The helmet paused the incessant scroll of gibberish. The symbols morphed and transformed, shifting through combinations of lines and strokes before finally settling on Tantalog. Overjoyed, he sat and absorbed the now-legible data, translating in his mind.

 _Critical failure. Suit damaged. Repair required…._

A small grouping of words lingered near the screen's bottom quarter.

 _Earth…prisoners…Seefyus._

Perplexed, Stitch considered the grouping as he walked over and examined the central consoles. The helmet's faceguard translated scrawling displays into Tantalog, although with a gaping hole in the center, Stitch had to creatively angle his head to read the holographic data.

 _Coordinates for Seefyus accepted. Ready for hyperdrive initiation sequence._

A beep emanated from somewhere. He swiveled his head around, the helmet scattering the sound across the room. The beep continued. After a breath, he patiently and methodically scanned the walls and the consoles. One more beep led him to an unassuming panel on the wall near the doorway. Words appeared atop the source of the sound.

 _Dropship Huzziuh away. Airlock cycling. Dropship awaiting command link-up._

The beep continued as Stitch scrambled over to the doorway and scurried up the wall. The paw again hovered over the button, the same tantalizingly red light as before. Another beep, much more noticeable, and much more aggravating, now that he was face-to-face with the source. The words parted as he sliced through the hologram and smacked the button. For several moments, a faint hum of electricity danced through the stale cabin air. And then the beep continued.

His swooping ears flipped and flopped within the confines of the helmet as he hunted down the new source. Past the prone guard, still breathing noisily, the chirp sang out from behind one of the consoles staged on the outer perimeter. Stitch jumped from the wall, but his weary legs did not provide sufficient energy. He nearly squashed his face against the helmet's glass pane as he hit the deck, cursing his stubborn appendages the whole way down.

The beep continued even after he had hit the next button. He swung his head around to the console sitting right in the center of the room. This central console was still generating the phantom image of a planet, the ecru orb twisting through nothing. Out of two dozen blinking red lights, Stitch smacked several, and mercifully ended the beeping. Holograms then materialized, each with their own message that no doubt needed to be urgently delivered. He scanned over several of them, waiting for the helmet's Tantalog circuit to overtake the lag. Boring data logs and coding crawled by on the screens, and Stitch grabbed hold of the edge of the helmet, eager to escape the technical muck. As the corner of the glass passed by his eye, one final hologram caught his attention. It hovered over an intriguing diagram of glowing lines inlaid into a crude drawing of what looked to be the orbiter.

 _Additional power rerouted to Containment Cell._

Stitch's eyes shot up as the helmet retook its spot on his head. _What containment cell?_ The shuttle bay held no place to hide a cell, and he had seen no other doors in transit to the control room. After a brief and confused pause, he recalled the holographic false wall on the dropship. He scouted along the sides of the room, waving his arms enthusiastically.

In a darkened corner of the room, one of his arms passed right through the gray wall. The rest of him followed suit. He clunked helmet-first into the metal bars of a containment cell identical to the one on the dropship. The iron bars hummed with the same strange energy as did the ones on the dropship. But whereas those cells had been vacant, this cell contained a guest.

Stitch could tell that he had been beaten badly. Even through his thick fur, spots, scratches, and marks were easily identifiable. Darkened bruises shined around his swollen eyes and nose as his head rose. One arm was tucked close to his body, with mauve and indigo spoiling his usual goldenrod. He lethargically brought his other arm up and gave a curt wave. Despite his obvious and numerous injuries, he still managed a grin.

"Hey cuz," Reuben coughed. "Long time no see."

#


	16. Chapter 15 - Where the Water Line Ended

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 15_

 _Where the Water Line Ended_

"You sure this is a good idea, sir?" Te'sudu asked the admiral. They were the only two who remained from the staff meeting. The pilot had cozied up into the seat as the ship's senior staff had skittered out, nearly falling over one another to escape the barely restrained wrath of an irate admiral. Gantu had grumbled and grunted in his seat, displeased at the lack of progress he had made in solving the conundrum of the missing captain. But, some hidden power within his seat had dispersed the cloud of dissatisfaction, and he had chosen to savor it. Reclining in their plush chairs, and communicators switched off, Gantu and Te'sudu had then delighted in the tranquility of the empty conference room for almost a standard shipboard hour, exchanging friendly banter only when they felt it necessary.

Gantu hummed in thought. "I do. They seem like good, solid soldiers. I think they'll fall right in line."

"If only to keep you from killing them, sir," the pilot opined with a chuckle. Gantu, looking less amused, watched a few stars scintillate on the view screens. The ship had moved outside of high Turan orbit, now gliding through interplanetary void. Even before the meeting with the senior staff, word had traveled along the axis of the _Adesa_ on the plans to leave behind Turo's star. But with their captain missing, many of the crew had taken to mumbling their concerns about abandoning the entire system. _Loyalty…but to whom_? Gantu had tossed the question around while berating those present in the staff meeting.

"So whad'ya think happened to her?" Te'sudu clairvoyantly queried. His handkerchief poked a bit from a pants pocket. Gantu must have missed when Te'sudu had swapped out the monogrammed square, for this one lacked the telltale wrinkles of heavy usage.

"Now that is a good question, pilot." Before their senior staff meeting, the two had engaged in an exhaustive and fruitless information-gathering expedition. Crew members stationed from bridge to cargo bay denied any knowledge of their captain's disappearance. _They're either stupid or lying_ , Gantu's typically irascible temper yelled. "But in all honesty, I find it difficult to believe she was kidnapped."

Te'sudu shifted in his seat. "Yeah, I've been with this complement since the _Adesa_ first set out from the docks. The captain has been one of the best I've ever known…present company excluded, of course."

Gantu could not help a meager laugh. "Your flattery is appreciated, Te'sudu."

"In all seriousness," the pilot rolled on, "there's no way some Coalition goons nabbed her. Just wouldn't have happened. Somethin' else is afoot here, Admiral."

From the second he stepped out of the dropship that had saved him from a likely demise on Turo, Gantu had recognized something unique in the diminutive pilot. Though Gantu surpassed his comrade in physical terms, they schemed on equal planes. Exposure to a similar mind was refreshing for the admiral, who had previously spent several dull years placating bureaucrats and Federation worlds' diplomatic envoys. "I agree, Te'sudu. But nobody around here is going to help us. Best if we keep this one quiet for a while. Let it unfold on its own."

"I like your thinking, sir. I'll keep an ear to the ground for the crew's grumblings."

Gantu nodded, and Te'sudu beamed. After a brief moment of evident satisfaction, "Sir," Te'sudu began, "how is it a tactical mind like yours is wasted on the Admiralty?"

The audacity of the question set Gantu aback. "What do you mean?" he offered in a sad attempt to buy time for a substantive response.

"I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds here, sir, but from what I've heard about you…you should be commanding a ship and taking on the Coalition from the front lines. The Admiralty just doesn't seem a good place for you—in my humble opinion."

That same argument had been Gantu's when Admiral Toobihya first brought the idea to a floundering captain. The stings of earlier disgraces had accrued with spectacular speed, and led Gantu into a downward spiral of epic proportions. The affable and corpulent admiral had pitched his plan to Gantu after their eighth round at Shra-ryn's Pub, Gantu's favorite local watering hole — the hushed atmosphere of the poorly populated dive offered an astounding clarity for ruing his past foibles and failures.

"Trust me, Gantu, you're perfect for the job!" The admiral's pink trunk waggled ferociously as he spoke. Infectious energy did little to brighten Gantu's spirit. He ordered the ninth round with a curt and practiced wave of his hand.

"Toobihya, I just don't think it's gonna happen. There's too much…history for me to make that cut."

"That's garbage, Gantu, and you know it! Those soft-swords that sit on there now don't understand _how_ to command. They can't put themselves in the minds of the soldiers. Too old, too weak, and with this Leehrra Coalition suddenly gaining some traction, little though it may be now…." Toobihya gaily accepted the comically large glass from the bartender. "With what I expect to come, we're gonna need some people who can mobilize troops, protect our galaxy, and get things done. We need a warrior." He downed the orange concoction in a single gulp. "We need _you_ , Gantu."

The captain grunted. "Even if I could..." Gantu kept his eyes on the glass resting on the bar top. "No, I think I've sufficiently poisoned the political well. It'll take a lot to push my nomination through."

Toobihya laughed. Gantu envied his friend's cheery guffaws that shook his smoky-pink jowls. It was a real and hearty laugh, one that had defused many a tense situation, and then begged for accompaniment in the jocularity. Gantu sat quietly. "Gantu, my friend, I _do_ have a few friends left here and there. If you want to do it, we will find a way."

"Now how can—"

"Ah." He raised a hooved hand. "Don't ask me that question, Gantu. You let me worry about the details." With an impressive — though likely unintended — display of power, Toobihya shoved the empty glass back along the bar, where it teetered on the beveled edge of rich Turan chalkwood. Gantu held his breath, knowing the glass was obscenely expensive from the few that had shattered under his own careless watch. When the glass settled, Gantu let out a relieved sigh. He had been rubbing his palm on the bar top, and with the threat of shattered glass defused, he took a moment to admire the ornate engravings that exquisitely depicted a scene from an ancient Turan tome, the exact moment when the hero had splayed open the ravenous waterbeast that terrorized the quaint village filled with tremulous and ancient Turan children. He frowned.

"Do you remember when we used to come here and actually relax?"

"Hah! I'm afraid it's been quite some time since we could revel so."

"I said _relax_."

"I heard what you said!" The devilishly disarming smile flashed through murky atmosphere.

"Hmph. Guess when _we_ did it, they were the same thing. But, I suppose that we were…younger then."

"Ah, younger. What a pleasant way to say _thinner_!" A jovial slap summoned a thunderous roar of mirth from deep within the admiral's corpulent belly. Gantu snickered along with him.

"Aha! So there _is_ some revelry left, it seems. That laugh is a good thing to hear from you. You've looked so glum for so long, my friend."

Gantu turned to the admiral. The pink trunk's sway hypnotized him momentarily. A noxious laugh that only Gantu could hear suddenly sprang up from somewhere behind the dirtied windows that would have looked out onto a dingy street in the shadier part of the city. He imagined the glimpses of sapphire fur that flitted between the holes in the window grime, and the wide dark eyes peering into his sanctuary. Enamel daggers flashed as another peal of laughter rattled the admiral. It took the curt and loud expulsion of air from Toobihya's prehensile appendage cutting above the noise in Gantu's head to return him to his bar stool. "…you know why, Toobihya."

"That I do, Gantu, that I do. But that _trog_ and the rest of its litter can't bother ya anymore. That is _done_ , settled, resolved, no longer your problem. Wash your hands of it, Gantu. And let 'em rot in banishment on that godforsaken patch of dirt. We here, in the civilized world!" He rotated in his stool, fanning thick arms around the barflies milling about the one working view screen showing the riot that had halted the game that afternoon. A few of them repaid the admiral's openness with peeved countenances and ruder gestures. Toobihya was far too spirited for their inexplicable temperance. "We face some arduous roads ahead. They make your _trog_ problem pale in comparison. These challenges will have a breadth, depth, and scope few will be equipped to handle. You…you sir, are one of the lucky few."

Gantu shied away from the lauding and fell into the engraving. The hero, having done his duty at a soon-to-be-disclosed mortal price, was preparing to extricate his weapon from the bowels of Ghronth'tyr, whose death throes had tossed up globules of Turan ocean over the water line and onto the shore with the village. A score of well-etched Turans of yore encircled their hero, awed by his phenomenal—and as Gantu thought, his somewhat aggrandized—presence. The point of the Sword of Gab-Drysh'val was inlaid with a minute ruby that glimmered majestically even in the dim and smoky air. He ran his palm along the edge of the out-of-place engraving, where the water line ended. _I wonder where Shra-ryn stole this from._

"I know it may seem impossible now, and that the trials will be too strenuous, but I have a feeling, in the pit of my stomach, that you are meant for that seat. So tell me, before the tenth round comes." He pointed at the bartender, who shrugged and uncorked a fresh bottle. "Tell me, yes or no?"

Gantu raised a tired head from the bar top. Solid aquamarine eyes met the swaying pink trunk. Rubies glimmered in their blue cores. Two fresh drinks skidded down the chalkwood bar top.

"So why did you do it?" Te'sudu begged. Gantu had prayed that recounting the story would sift out a clever reason, a noble mission of upholding galactic peace and protecting the Federation, which he could feed to the pilot. He settled for the truth instead.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"That's it?"

"Yep." Gantu stared down the pilot, who by the look on his face was stewing in an awkward confusion. Given Gantu's recent propensity for seemingly disappointing Te'sudu, he questioned his choice of words. A minute or so went by in pensive silence.

"'Bout as good a reason as any, I guess." Te'sudu's tolerance for Gantu's lax response allowed the admiral a relieving breath.

"I thought so, too…then." He sunk a little deeper into the plush fabric of the chair.

"And now, sir?"

Gantu steepled his fingers. He worked to give voice to the myriad gripes and grievances of a member of the Admiralty— _perhaps the only member now_. "I wonder if you're right. If I should've been on the front lines, commanding from a bridge rather than an office. But…this war against the Coalition hasn't needed to be fought with blasters and cannons. Money has been our weapon, promises our artillery. We lobbed them both at our own people, to help them combat a menace — though we always had far more promises than money to offer. Given how successful _that_ plan has been…maybe the cannons should have been primed for battle sooner."

"Well-spoken sir. And I agree with you. Perhaps if it had been done sooner, our captain wouldn't have…."

"Left you?" Gantu finished.

An appreciative smile broke across Te'sudu's worried complexion. Gantu believed that M'Saliti's desertion had taken a severe emotional toll on the poor pilot. "Yes, left us, sir. Never figured her for the leaving-us-high-and-dry type, but…what's done is done, no sense in bothering ourselves with a past we can't change." He hopped from his seat and walked to Gantu. A small bead of sweat had trickled down the pilot's formidable forehead, oiling the orange of his skin. The monogrammed handkerchief dabbed with learned accuracy. "What matters more is our plan for now. Which is…what, exactly, sir?"

Gantu scrunched his face in focused thought. In the bustle of assuming command, he had forgotten to plan for a new destination. His authoritative tone obfuscated his lack of forethought. "First things first, Te'sudu. We should fully exit the Turo System. And with the loyalties of all Federation ships in question, it would be best if the _Adesa_ were alone in this maneuver."

"Aye, sir. Where should we take her?"

Gantu gestured at the view screen. The picture of the void outside shrunk away, bringing the whole magnificence of the galaxy to the plush and cozy conference room. An infinitesimal cerulean dot indicated their ship's current position. The computer had earlier crunched hyperdrive calculations and drawn connectors between nearby star systems. He picked one at random. "Let's head there, and collect ourselves. I think our crew could use a bit of regrouping time."

Te'sudu nodded. "A fine idea, sir. I'll inform Strychim personally." He pivoted and stepped toward the exit.

"Ah, one more thing, Te'sudu." The pilot turned back. "This XO, Strychim…you've been on this ship for quite a while, so you probably know a few things, yes?"

"A fair assessment, sir."

"What do you make of the commander?" Gantu pried.

Te'sudu answered with little contemplation. "He's nervous, edgy, terrified of making a mistake. But he is damned meticulous, and is loyal to a fault. He'll be a great asset to our team. And who knows…ya may end up liking him." He brandished a cheeky smile.

Gantu snorted. "Dismissed, Warrant Officer."

As the little orange creature left his sight, Gantu wandered back to Shra-ryn's Pub. Toobihya's canorous laugh filled the dingy bar with the only hint of joy the dive had probably ever experienced. He watched helplessly as the picture transformed to the docking arena. The thick pink trunk curled tightly against slackened lips. A happy laugh quieted only by death. Gantu blinked wetly. He wiped at the tears that had secretly welled in his solid aquamarine eyes.

Alone in the conference room, lonely with his thoughts, he opted to find something else to draw his attention. The captain's disappearance still nagged. Her quarters would be a few turns down the labyrinthine hallway of the ship's domicile zone. "Maybe the captain left something there," he mumbled skeptically.

Rising from the heavy table, with lachrymose vestiges streaking down one cheek, he headed for the door in search of the answer to his distraction.

#


	17. Chapter 16 - Short-Lived Constellations

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 16_

 _Short-Lived Constellations_

"Why do we need to leave Earth?"

"I told ya, cuz. If these guys were really goin' to…um…."

"Seefyus," Stitch helped, a claw pointing absentmindedly toward the spinning ecru hologram. As if cued, it then fizzled out of existence.

"Right, Seefyus. If we want some answers, then we gotta go there." On one knee, Reuben unhinged a panel covering the bulk of the central console. Alien hums, whirs, and beeps leaked out from the exposed port.

The noises did not stop Stitch from pacing around the control room, anxiety germinating deep within his gut. Fears of missing any surviving members of his ` _ohana_ had curled like vines up his spine. The Kaua`i dawn had been so desolate, yet he had clung to hope, a treacherous hope which now only fed those clenching vines. With consternation building, he was forced to acknowledge that Reuben was right. If he wanted to discover the true purpose of the gray armored colossi—the ones who, in his mind, had undoubtedly been involved, if not responsible, for annihilating his home—then following their intended path would be the best option. Vines decayed and reeled back, and he felt his spine be released from their grasps. But, they left behind a racking guilt about abandoning his adopted home world.

"But what about other cousins?" he inquired, hoping Reuben would further assuage his concerns.

"Well, there aren't any more on this ship."

Reuben and Stitch had combed the orbiter for signs of their cousins. Stitch had been unusually confident during their search. The ugly ship was quite large, and could have housed an untold number of secret hideaways and holographic walls. He had done most of the work looking around, as Reuben had moved with a lethargy imposed by his injuries. It had required a long deflation period, but eventually, after a disappointing search, the confidence had escaped. Stitch pressed Reuben. " _Ih_ , but where they go?"

Reuben was now neck-deep in one of the consoles, performing some technical maneuvers far beyond Stitch's capabilities. It seemed that Reuben was in an important phase of his operation, and his hands were flying through and seizing components throughout the machine. In between these spurts of frantic activity, he answered, "I dunno, man. I pretty much searched the whole damned island, never found any of 'em. But don't worry… I sure they'll be fine." Flying sparks from the console interrupted him, and he lambasted them with several rude Tantalog curses. Stitch snickered a bit at the tirade Reuben was unleashing on the stubborn machine.

Reuben appeared not to notice. "I mean," he resumed while twisting some odd-colored wires together, "if we can make it outta there, then they can too." More sparks erupted from the console's exposed guts. A low whistle emanated from its bowels. Reuben emerged from the device and peeked at the displays. "Hmm, maybe Tantalog isn't in its directory. You mind handin' me that helmet?"

The guard's helmet rested near the containment cell. Reuben had deactivated the holographic shroud after Stitch had used the key ripped from the guard he had downed. That guard was now set flush against the rear wall, groaning behind the humming metal bars. Reuben and Stitch had tossed their prisoner into the hold with plans for an interrogation brewing — a long shot, Stitch had rationalized, but one worth taking at this point.

He brought the helmet back to the console and handed it to Reuben, who stripped off the outer covering and dug out a small black module from the external speaker. "This should do the trick…" Reuben muttered before once more venturing into the machine.

Stitch casually observed Reuben at work. Reuben constantly impressed Stitch. He was a far more intelligent and capable creature than people anticipated, though Stitch guessed his cousin's laid-back temperament masked the truth well. At first glance, Reuben smacked of laziness. And the affinity for sandwich-making and sandwich-eating would do little to disprove that hypothesis. Yet, during their time together, Stitch learned that no task fazed Reuben, who would instead apply his calm demeanor to complete any challenge — especially mechanical — with apparent ease. Stitch opined that his own occasional petulance limited his ability to solve problems the way Reuben did—an opinion Reuben gleefully rubbed in his blue face whenever possible.

More sparks jettisoned from the machine's underbelly in short-lived constellations, pursued by two shrill beeps. "Aha!" Reuben exclaimed. "Got it! Hey cuz, take a look at the displays and tell me what ya see."

Obligingly, Stitch examined the holographic displays. On the screen, Tantalog characters anarchically popped in and out of existence. Words he should have recognized became jumbles that teased him with near legibility. When Stitch reported this occurrence, Reuben unleashed another string of furious curses, this time targeted at his self-proclaimed sloppy tinkering effort that "must've killed some of the memory cores—damn these hands!" he hollered as a hand emerged from the console and gave its smooth side a good smack.

As Reuben spent some time venting frustrations, Stitch stood away, taken slightly aback. Reuben had never been prone to such outbursts before. Stitch wondered how Reuben was handling everything that had happened. He had been through a lot over the past day — far more physically than what Stitch could claim. Their differing experiences were proving tricky to navigate, and with each misstep, each moment of anger, they threatened to cleave apart years of friendship. Stitch feared he would be unable to bridge the widening chasm soon enough to keep Reuben from completely losing the calm demeanor he wore so effortlessly.

When Reuben had finished his rant and revisited the central console, Stitch began busying himself with unscrambling and collating horrendously corrupted data. In its own droll fashion, the console lagged and sputtered at Stitch's typed requests with hums that alleged compliance but really preceded system crashes. Stitch laboriously drew data, and mulled over the bits that would coalesce before the display would die again. One piece he had read elsewhere, however, repeatedly crept back into his mind. He had told Reuben most of what he had uncovered before freeing his cousin, but this bit, Stitch had forgotten in the excitement of finding a cousin, only for it to surface as he stared into flippant displays. The seventh time the console fizzled out, he finally aired his nagging thought. "I saw more data on the helmet before. It said, 'Earth, prisoners, Seefyus.' What do you think that means?"

Reuben extracted his goldenrod form from the internal tangle of wires and circuitry, and offered his cousin a puzzled shrug. "Beats me, man. Maybe it was about me? They _did_ take me from Earth, y'know. They could have a prison site on… um…."

"Seefyus," Stitch provided again, along with a raised eyebrow split between curiosity and concern.

"Yep, Seefyus…why can't I remember that…heard'a it before though…weird choice, if I'm thinkin'a the right planet …" he burbled into incoherence.

"But then why not say just one prisoner, if only you? Why _prisoners_?" His confidence had been slowly inflating again, and with the promise of a clue, the pump had kicked into high gear.

Though it was probably inadvertent, Reuben went ahead and popped that confidence. "Uh, dunno cuz. Could'a been a typo. They were probably in a hurry when they snatched me up and stuffed me in a goddamn bag." Stitch hung his head, and methodically stroked his chin, desperate to continue his argument. But, Reuben had been right so far. Under the lazy but cold light of his cousin's logic, the shred of evidence looked to be of little help for Stitch.

Eager to hide his disappointment, Stitch cracked a wan smile as Reuben joined him at the console's screen. The map of Seefyus the guard had viewed before Stitch intruded had mostly rematerialized, though intermittent flickers haunted the drab image. "But cuz, I'll betcha we can find out there."

Stitch now really studied the hovering globe. It had looked humdrum from his ceiling vantage point. With his feet firmly planted on the floor, and at close range, he still found it unremarkable. Aside from a few plain cities, three or four rather prominent craters, and a ragamuffin moon, Seefyus was the prototypical desert planet. It orbited a dim yellow dwarf star nearly one thousand parsecs from Earth. For species like humanity, that would be an unfathomable distance. For those blessed with the power of the hyperdrive, travel time would be several hours.

To Reuben's perpetually vocalized disappointment, Stitch never learned the physics behind the standard hyperdrive system. The late-night black-and-white B-movies that glued Stitch to the couch had peculiar ways of drowning out Reuben's ramblings on the system's ability to compress distances between two points in three-dimensional space by twisting higher dimensional energies. Stitch simply contented himself with gleefully pushing the hyperdrive initiator's black-and-yellow striped plunger. The distinct coloration, meant as a warning of the ineluctable effects of hyperdrive on local space-time, only encouraged Stitch whenever the occasion arose to depress the initiator.

Stitch circled about the console, keeping wide dark eyes focused on the weak hologram of the planet. A small shudder passed up his spine. "But what about…." Legs suddenly quit. He threw an arm to the console to steady himself. He had already informed Reuben of his discovery at the crest of the hill. Reuben had sat stoically as Stitch delivered the news, and then goldenrod hands had immediately busied themselves with preparations around their new ship. _Not a word_ , Stitch had lamented.

Reuben came around and placed a hand on Stitch's fuzzy blue shoulder. A ragged splotch of grease from the console's interior stained his cousin's goldenrod fur. "There's nothin' we can do for 'em now, cuz. If what ya say is true, then…then we need ta find out what happened to 'em. Find who's responsible. And make 'em pay."

Reuben had said something similar, in that exact icy tone, after awakening Stitch from his cozy spot at the foot of Lilo's bed. A typical summer thunderstorm had rolled in during the midnight hours. Lightning flashed through the little window in the domed observatory as Stitch rubbed the sleep from his eyes and followed Reuben down the travel tube. A sharp and torrential rain slammed on the awning above the front door as they sat down on the soaked deck, watching trails of mud flow down from their hill.

" _Yuuga_ want to talk?" Stitch nearly shouted over the rain.

"Nah. I just wanna…I just wanna sit here."

Sheets poured, obscuring the trees that swayed with the storm. Stitch wondered how they bent so far without breaking. From their slick trunks to even the tiniest branch, the trees held on tightly as the wind blew and the rain tore. These trees, the ones guarding his home, were almost designed to sway with the storms of Kaua`i, with the right design in the right place. _Their One True Place_. He liked looking at the trees sway, especially in this partnered solitude under the rain.

"Y'know," Reuben opened after several minutes had elapsed, "I have these…dreams, sometimes. Actually, it's why I woke ya. Tonight's was kinda normal, but…they're always so vivid, man, like I can't get outta 'em. I keep…I keep seein' people. And not these _humans_ , but people from all across the galaxy. They're…watchin' me, or somethin'. Watchin' everythin' I do, and while they're doin' that, they talk to me. Tell me I'm an _abomination_ , that I don't deserve ta be alive. 'N' it never, stops, they talk and talk, no matter what, they don't…."

Reuben shook as he had done on the couch the first day he had arrived to the house on the hill. "Sometimes, cuz, I just…I dunno what ta do." Stitch again placed a reassuring hand on the goldenrod shoulder. "I dunno _why_ it plays in my head, and why I can't get rid'a it. I don't even know where these words 'n' pictures _come_ from. It's not a memory — I don't think. Once I was activated, that was kinda it. I'm not like you, havin' ta face 'em all down, 'n' try ta…ta prove 'em wrong...I'm simpler than that, I guess, so I...I dunno why this keeps happenin'."

The rain had softened to a mist, which mixed with the warm wind blowing in over the hill, coating the duo in a fine film of Kaua`i summer night. The droplets glistened as facsimiles of the stars hidden behind clouds. Points of light tumbled from Reuben in short-lived constellations as he twitched. " _Oketaka_ ," Stitch soothed.

Reuben tore away from Stitch's hand. "No, it's not! It's not okay. I…it's frustratin' as hell tryin'a figure this out. I wanna find out what, or who's doin' this ta me, who's puttin' these images'a people mad at me in my head. I wanna make 'em _pay_ for it!"

Not sure how to respond to the unexpectedly irate Reuben, Stitch replaced his hand on the goldenrod shoulder and watched the Kaua`i storm fade. The trees had ceased their swaying. The tips of their leaves glistened in the mists of a dying storm. A few errant branches had deserted from their hosts, but all in all, their jungle guardians remained intact.

Above, the clouds were shifting away as Reuben, still denied the reprieve of sleep, shifted on the deck. He raised a sullen head, bags heavy under his eyes that shimmered with the water on his fur. "I—I'm sorry, cuz. I'm not meanin' ta act this way. But when yer tired all'a the time, 'n' ya have these dreams chasin' ya, it…hmm, well, not even the best egg salad sandwich'll fix that."

A small smile quietly broke on Stitch's face. "But baloney and cheese?"

Despite the weight bearing down on his eyes, Reuben was able to get them to sparkle in their usual mischievous way, if only for a few moments. "Hah, yeah, it'd hafta be a good one, though. Couple slices'a each — 'n' only that good cheese, too, not the stuff the big girl usually buys. Extra mustard wouldn't hurt either."

"And mayo too, cousin?"

"Ah...nah, hold the mayo, champ. Can't have _too_ much goin' on in there." Reuben chuckled, his hands pantomiming the construction of the sandwich. Once he had layered on the invisible top bread slice, he stayed silent for an entire minute. Stitch never moved his hand. He watched as the wide dark eyes shimmered more brightly, then looked away to anything but Stitch. The moon had broken through the fleeing cloud cover, and with it came the stars. They scintillated in the droplets of water coating Reuben's goldenrod pelage. The warm wind carried away some droplets, which floated by Stitch's nose on their way toward the inky ocean.

"Yeah," Reuben rose from the silence, "maybe revenge isn't really my thing, cuz. Makin' people _pay_ , 'n' all. I dunno about that. Who knows, might just be some'a those stories you 'n' Jumba spin about the galaxy, gettin' inna my head...I dunno." Reuben's hand patted the tuft of bedraggled fur atop Stitch's head. It was a soft touch. "And, not wantin' ta get sentimental on ya or nothin', but…it's nice ta talk it outta my system with someone. I'm…glad ya listened."

Stifling a yawn, Stitch took his hand off of Reuben. " _Morcheeba._ Happy to help." He rose to his padded feet. The tree closest to him waved its topmost branches. Stitch gave the canopy a wink as he offered a hand to his cousin. "Can we eat now?"

"Hah, yeah, that sandwich did sound like a pretty good idea…let's go raid the fridge then. Maybe I could put together a decent meal." The two shared a laugh as the door shut on the moon overlooking the glistening trees.

Stitch wished he could see those trees from the orbiter. Much like last time, he had not been prepared for his cousin's display of secretly seething anger. Branches were bending under the furious storm, and Stitch worried they would start snapping soon.

Perhaps most worrying, he thought, was that to Stitch's frazzled mind lost in the ecru hologram, Reuben's demands for vengeance were now a welcomed panacea. The twinge that had gripped him in the town still lurked in the deep recesses of his brain, with only his cousin's semblance of a plan to keep it at bay. A fainter voice pestered Stitch, one that wondered what she would think of Reuben's plan. With difficulty, he shushed it, and rode with the impending storm.

"Okay," Stitch acquiesced with a little sigh. "Let's go."

"Ah, outstandin', cuz! The system's got the coordinates locked in. I'll just push this plunger here and—ugh…." Reuben clutched his arm, the welts of the beating glowing menacingly.

His face's swelling had graciously receded after Stitch liberally applied a cooling gel from the onboard medical kit. Other bruises had not responded so well, intensifying to angry violets and darkening patches of fur. Stitch suspected the arm to be fractured, though Reuben's pride loudly rejected that notion. Both Stitch and he were engineered to heal fast, so they knew the arm would mend soon, but that knowledge would do little to numb his current and severe pain.

Stitch caught Reuben before he hit the floor. Reuben first tried to wave off the assistance, but finally submitted and sunk into Stitch's arms and onto the deck.

"What did they do to you?" Stitch gasped.

"…dunno…guess they…didn't like me," Reuben punched through gritted teeth screwed up into a grin.

On the ground, Reuben switched to muttering asinine dares for unconsciousness to take him. Stitch handled the launch preparations. A few depressed buttons later, he gave the arming plunger its push, and the ship engaged its hyperdrive. No one inside the ship would experience physical effects from the drive, yet an outside observer would see the ship bend the very fabric of space-time before tearing away instantaneously, leaving behind a wake of pale-colored waves. _A spectacular sight_ , Stitch marveled. He yawned. Like his cousin, his own weary body needed rest.

One curiously dark corner of the control room called to him as the most comfortable spot. Stitch curled up along the wall and laid his head on the metal deck. The travel timer levitating over the central console declared a nearly eight hour journey. _Plenty of time for a nap_ , Stitch gratefully noted. Besides the susurrations of his cousin trapped in the oblivion of half-sleep, the atmosphere was incomprehensibly soothing. Relaxation generously washed over Stitch, and he let himself be carried away on its tide, drawn out to a calm sea.

The twinge struck.

It had been a miracle, stumbling upon his family—his ` _ohana_. They had brought peace to a tortured soul. Hope to a lost one. They gave him joy. They gave him purpose. They were gone. _They're all gone_.

Imagined images zoomed. Images of their suffering, their deaths, seared his thoughts. Their cries whipped his laughable veil of fictitious strength to tatters, which were scattered into the furious mental maelstrom.

Before he realized it, the tears had leaked through his pursed eyelids. Breath hiccuped with sobs. He let it go, just as he had done while his home burned. He wept for them. And for himself.

Like Reuben on the deck under the storm, Stitch would not be granted his reprieve.

#


	18. Chapter 17 - A Wayward Bolt

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 17_

 _A Wayward Bolt_

"I know they're here somewhere…they _must_ be!"

The jungle had let out into a meadow. Past tall blades of Kaua`i bluegrass lay a clearing. Cobra trampled many stalks, and dodged an exceptionally muddy puddle, as he searched. Footprints had dissolved in the rain, with only the sporadic arc of a heel sticking out of the thick mud. The trail had been washed away in much the same way his hope had been.

Ted and Chuck had long since been recalled to the investigation site. The remains of the house on the hill could still be seen smoldering when their radios had burst into life, with rapid harsh chatter demanding their return to normal emergency duties. Excuses had been made, and Cobra had almost sincerely wished them well as they trekked back through humid jungle in yellow rubber suits.

His own jacket hung limply over a rolled-up white shirtsleeve. Water droplets dripped from the inundated fabric, mixing with the beads of sweat escaping his smooth forehead. Sunglasses hid in the shirt pocket, away from the imposing darkness of a jungle night. The feeble beam of Cobra's cell phone had lit the way, and would do so for the entire night, if need be.

Admittedly, his search would be helped if he waited the few hours for dawn to arrive. Yet, some hope still clung with a frustrating and invigorating resilience, and drove him to wave the phone-flashlight around in sweeping arcs, occasionally tracing out the contours of sandal heels left in the jungle dirt. He would grumble when the trail disappeared, and harrumph when he picked it up again. This cycle persisted as Cobra neared the clearing, with him angrily brushing aside the bluegrass, until he found it.

The phone's pale beam had nearly missed it. The leather blended well with the jungle mud and loam. One strap had been rent apart, and Cobra grabbed it by the frays and brought it to his face. "Aha!" he exclaimed in a slew of excitement, relief, confusion, and despair. The sandal had little to say in return.

Only a short while ago, he had watched the sandal dangle over the edge of her deck. The strap was tied around a whitewashed post, the wood barely holding onto the slippery leather. The sun was drying it out, and crystals of sea salt were rising to the surface to join the shoe's healthy dusting of sand and dirt; yet, the foot to which the shoe belonged was nowhere in sight.

The knock on the door summoned the older sister. Cobra expertly hid his disappointment behind the stoicism of a CIA-trained social worker. "How was hula today for her, Nani?" Cobra asked. "Did Lilo enjoy it?" The younger Pelekai had seemed bothered by something for the past few days. He had shown up for a casual chat with her, forgoing the usual black suit and tie for a more festive Aloha shirt. Jumba had given a shout of approval as they passed on the dirt road up to the house, a fact he hoped to share with Lilo to elicit a much-needed laugh.

"It was…fine." Robotic — not what Cobra had expected from the usually highly expressive Nani.

He pressed her. "Oh? Just fine?"

The sigh that passed from her lips reminded Cobra of the trials this young woman had already faced. While others her age contented themselves with bumbling about with inchoate views and terrifyingly idealistic thoughts on the world, Nani had taken on the duties of caring for herself and a sister. She had been grounded by a harsh reality, and worked every day to overcome incredible odds that were alien to her peers. It was something Cobra would forget, looking at someone who should have been out enjoying the sun on the beach with friends, but who already had one foot pointed toward a kitchen from which the unique scent of poi floated.

"I don't know, Cobra. She just stopped talking. Went up to her room and slammed the door. She was supposed to meet him after hula class, and I thought she did...maybe it didn't go well."

"Ah, I see."

The blue one had been staying out of trouble for quite some time now, but Cobra had heard a few grumblings from the others like him. Seagulls had been turning up with jagged claw marks ripping through ivory feathers and sinewy flesh. Soon, bird bodies were littering the dirt roads, and as they fell, they tossed up a cloud of rumors and speculation. From the sleuthing Cobra had conducted, he discovered that the blue one had recently been through a difficult patch in some relationship or another, and many of his kin whispered to Cobra that they were worried about the one who had brought them all to Earth.

"I mean, she told me what she was going to discuss…I'm worried about her, Cobra. And him, too."

"I'm sure it's a misunderstanding." The stoicism again hid the uncertainty in Cobra's mind. "She still up there?"

Nani nodded, obviously anxious to return to the poi. Its pungent scent was now pouring out of the open front door. "I can try to get her, if you like—"

"No. No, that's alright." Cobra played with one of the wooden buttons on the bottom of his shirt. "Just let me know if…if anything changes."

Cobra detested leaving without speaking to her, but he knew pressing the issue would not end well. As Nani offered her wan smile before hurriedly slamming the door and shouting at the poi that was most likely on the verge of burning, he pivoted and made his way down the whitewashed steps. The sandal watched him from the post, drying alone under the baking Kaua`i sun. He was halfway down the dirt road before he even started to wonder where the left-footed sandal was.

Now, under the beam of the cell phone, he tried and failed to find the left-footed sandal, all while clutching to the frayed end of the snapped strap of the right-footed one. He shuffled the grass around, and ended up walking into the clearing. In the empty space, Cobra was able to study the grass _en masse_ , rather than shuffle through blade after blade. As he did so, he began to see that something else had already shuffled the grass. He dropped to a knee and examined the border between clearing and meadow.

The stalks were bent, pushed by some serious force. Their tips were singed, blasted by some serious heat. He rolled a stalk between his fingers. _Something big was here_. He brought the sandal into focus. The frayed strap lightly flapped around in time with the twitching in Cobra's meaty fingers. _And so was she._

The crack nearly knocked him over. It tore through the air, sending a wave rocketing through the meadow. He nearly dropped the sandal as he flew to his feet and scanned the horizon. The trees encircling the meadow covered a great deal of the sky, so he sprinted through the grass, batted away palm fronds, and stumbled onto a road.

In the distance, where the sun would soon rise to begin another day on the desolate island, Cobra could make out a few shadows locked in a skirmish. They were merely dots, barely distinguishable from the rocky precipice on which they stood, but Cobra's highly trained eyes easily separated them from the background. He figured they would need to be pretty big, as he was awfully far away from them. He looked back along the dirt road and, seeing no one, decided to walk closer and investigate whatever battle was raging ahead.

Eight steps in, a wayward bolt of lightning blazed over the fighting shadows.

Muddy water splashed over impeccably shined shoes as Cobra hauled toward the precipice. Smaller lightning bolts were erupting ahead, forcing the shadows into a dangerous waltz. The distance was much farther than he had expected, and Cobra was soon winded by his all-out effort. But as he tuckered out, so did the bolts of lightning — weaker and more sporadic. The shadows ended their awkward dance and moved in on the electricity.

 _C'mon, Cobra, keep going_ , he chided aching legs and heaving chest. _Not too far now_ , he lied to himself. Agonizing minutes passed by, but the gap did narrow. When he was within earshot, he started to hear horrible tinny scratchy sounds emanating from the group of shadows, which had enveloped the lightning. As a unit, they then moved into a larger and stationary shadow, camped out on the peak of the precipice.

He reached the edge of the precipice right as the large shadow burst into flames. Some serious force pushed him to the ground. He tossed up his arm to shield his face as some serious heat blasted over him. The light was incredible, as bright as the nearing dawn would be. He fumbled for his sunglasses, and got them on just as the light began to twist away. Through darkened lenses, Cobra watched as a vessel, blocky and ugly, lifted away from the peak of the precipice.

It had just felt right to chase after it. He ran to where the short grass had been trampled by the ship, and jumped a few times, swinging his arms wildly at the fleeing shadow. He shouted angry curses and made furious and impotent threats as the shadow disappeared on the horizon.

The loss of his usual cool surprised the agent. Cobra gulped down a few deep breaths, but could not quench his rage. He spun around and stomped his feet several times, his mind racing with questions as his eyes watched the answers leave on rocket jets.

"Damn it!" he shouted at the sea. His jacket had blown off his arm when the ship had lifted off, and he had dropped the sandal as he sprinted. They both sat in a crumpled pile down near the edge of the precipice. With a sigh, he trundled back to what he had left behind. The jacket's fabric was still damp as he laid it across a white shirtsleeve again, and the edges of the torn strap were more frayed as he cradled the sandal in his large hand.

Cobra stared down the empty dirt road. His panicked footprints had been buried in the mud, and there they stayed. They would not be washed away. And neither would his hope. With his nerves steeling, he removed his sunglasses and took a step down the path. "I have to get off this island."

#


	19. Chapter 18 - The Serenity of Predictable

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 18_

 _The Serenity of Predictable Motion_

Praetor Horush Ga'lean sat quietly in the waiting room. These spare few minutes in his packed day gave ample time to meditate, his preferred method of maintaining his disciplined composure. The now-quotidian meetings between the Chancellor and he still sent a pang of anxiety burrowing into his gut, which had a nasty tendency to surface when he reached the feet of his superior. Deep breathing and calming thoughts, he had discovered, were passable methods for keeping that anxiety buried for as long as possible.

He had released his mantra—a warm series of clicks and whirrs of an ancient, mostly dead, language—and was returning to the cold sterility of the world when the door slid open. A puny ochre attendant shuffled into the hallway. It reminded Ga'lean of the prey he used to snag on his home world. "Praetor," it squeaked, "the Chancellor will see you now."

Praetor Ga'lean nodded to the aide and proceeded inside. He eschewed a mysterious cloak like his boss, instead opting for much more ostentatious—and much more protective—heavy armor. A stark white cuirass, gauntlets, and greaves gleamed atop his pitch black fatigues. The Coalition seal on his chest—the blood-red semicircle bisected by a terrifyingly black but lopsided V, its origin withheld from the Praetor—complemented his authoritative stance. His custom-made armor, the bane of quartermasters the galaxy over, fit snugly on his fourteen foot tall frame, just a hair or two shy of the Skallyraathi he commanded.

As he approached the Chancellor's desk, his golden eyes probed the lush cerulean scenery of Leehrra that was projected along the expansive back wall. Typically, when Ga'lean visited, there pervaded an incessant din of squabbling parties as politicians vied with one another to gain precious time with the Chancellor's powerful ear. Today's silence ruffled him to his onyx down feathers. His gray beak clicked with remarkable audibility in alacrity for his especially privileged conversation.

He bowed at the seated figure. "High Chancellor." His rich and deep voice rumbled in pleasant waves that the walls welcomed and bounced along the length of the Chancellery's main reception area, decorated in the relative austerity its occupant preferred. A shimmer passed over his burnt-umber plumage as he dipped to the floor. His right alar arm covered his chest, three talon-capped digits clacking against the armor.

"Praetor. A pleasure as always." The Chancellor's shrill rasp screeched as walls, through no will of their own, passed the ugly sound around the room. The perpetually fluttering black cloak billowed in some unfelt breeze. Glimpses of the figure within — a jade eye, long and bony fingers, or pale blue skin — teased the Praetor, as they did every time he spoke with his commander. "What news do you bring?"

Ga'lean returned to full height. "The two are travelling to Seefyus. They should arrive within the hour."

"Most excellent," the Chancellor hissed. "Will our soldiers be ready?"

"Indeed, Chancellor. They have been positioned." Seefyus was important for both the Chancellor and he. It had been almost a lifetime since Ga'lean last set foot on its deserts. In retrospect, he had baked under the unforgiving Seefyan sun and viscerally hated his time there. But, a strange nostalgia would rack him when mention was made of the bleak planet.

"Outstanding, Praetor." Secretly, Ga'lean wondered how a politician with the raspy and dissonant voice of the Chancellor could find such commendable success. _But there is something…appealing about it._ Unidentifiable undertones sprouted from each phoneme, harmonizing intoxicatingly over prolonged exposure. It required the practiced fortitude of a soldier like Ga'lean to stay completely sober in the Chancellor's presence.

"Inform me when the event is concluded," the Chancellor rasped.

Ga'lean bowed his proud head. The Chancellor rose from his seat. At full height, he would stand nearly as tall as Ga'lean —nearly, but not quite the same. Ga'lean involuntarily smirked at the fact, an action he rapidly hid from view. Feet seemed vestigial for the Chancellor, and he appeared to hover as he continued. "How does our agent fare?"

"The agent is in play, Chancellor. I do have concerns of loyalty…but I'm confident it will turn out as we hope." _A bold statement, Horush,_ he rebuked. The agent's acquisition had been relatively recent, and it was outside his usual operating procedure. Following orders was second nature for Ga'lean, and to stray so wildly from usual policy was something to which he was greatly unaccustomed. Yet, this agent had seemed eager and willing, with only a little persuasion to cement conviction. And Ga'lean was also eager and willing to deploy his asset, questions of loyalty notwithstanding. _Nothing I cannot handle_. So whether it should have or not, assuredness in his own ability to manage his newest operative went ahead and welled up in his chest.

The Chancellor waved bony fingers. "Have no fear, Praetor," he reassured. "I trust you will accomplish the task." He floated away from his plain desk and met Ga'lean at arm's length. A slender hand, his skin's blue pigment almost totally blanched, extended from the cloak onto Ga'lean's shoulder. "Praetor, you are one of my most loyal soldiers and trusted confidants."

"You humble me, Chancellor."

"And you honor me, Praetor, with your service…service I have need of. I must now place upon you a task of the utmost importance." The hand slithered over his neck and firmly gripped his opposite shoulder. The Chancellor spun Ga'lean around to face the door. "I am planning to launch a rather arduous campaign that will span multiple systems — a junket for the ages, if you will. And I'll be taking the _Chantana_ as my touring vessel. She's currently in high Leehrran orbit, completing a few minor repairs and upgrades. I ask that you leave ahead of me and prepare her for my arrival. _You_ must oversee it personally."

Ga'lean first eyed the Chancellor with cautious curiosity before dropping his gaze to the floor. He knew the Chancellor was busy and would have little time for small talk. Given the special silence he had been granted, however, Ga'lean had expected to come away from this meeting with more than a pitiable and menial job. _Certainly something more fitting for the Praetor of the Coalition, Commander of the Skallyrathi!_

The only furnishing that showed signs of embellishment was the gold-filament rug that ran the length of the reception area, which Ga'lean now studied intently to mask his disappointment. The pattern reminded him of the marshes of his home world, ones that a much younger Ga'lean had been prohibited from entering alone. The mossy swirls and eddies of all sorts of colors would engulf one another as they listed about stagnant ankle-deep waters.

It was his father who had first taken him to the marshes. A young Ga'lean would bob and weave through the translucent reeds, pretending to hide from his parent who was hunting for the indescribably tasty creatures that made their residences in the docile waters. Father would play along, feigning ignorance at his son's location while Ga'lean would giggle wildly, until he would swoop a massive wing over his son, enfolding him in the same burnt umber plumage Ga'lean now wore. For a moment, the Praetor wondered where that carefree and humorful attitude had disappeared to, before he recalled the moment he left it in that very marsh. The recollection had Praetor Ga'lean shuddering in the Chancellery's main reception area.

Yet, something about the marsh was still soothing to him. So, he imagined the rug below him moving in that oddly soothing fashion of brackish marsh water. He needed the serenity of predictable motion, just for a moment or two, to ruminate on the Chancellor's deflating request. Then, once an acceptable amount of time has passed, he brought probing golden eyes back to his commander.

"Is that all, Chancellor?"

A sharp chuckle emanated from the hood. "It's not as simple a task as it sounds. There is much to do. I'll forward the pertinent details to you."

"Of course, Chancellor. Whatever you require of me."

A pat on his shoulder. "Very good, Praetor. Thank you." The arm slipped back into the cloak. "I shall expect a full report when the ship is ready."

A pregnant pause indicated his time to depart. The Praetor nodded and bowed once more. "High Chancellor."

Once he stepped out of the room, the pang in his gut exploded. _What the hell kind of job is this!_ Immediately, commanding discipline struck like hammer to anvil, and quashed his angst immediately. _This is a sign of respect. It must be._

Praetor Ga'lean had grown complacent, which he now realized standing outside the Chancellery's main reception area. So used to missions of obvious and great import — protecting the Chancellor from all harm and danger, ensuring enemies would not present inconvenient issues at inopportune times, forwarding the interests of the Coalition throughout the galaxy. He had a wonderful job, a truly enjoyable profession that he almost let slip through his fingers. _How lucky am I_ , Ga'lean would remind himself when ego seized control, _to have been selected for this great responsibility._

And on occasion, the duty to which he had sworn himself, to which he had pledged mind, body, and spirit, required assuming less savory tasks. He had held himself in too high of esteem, and so relished the chance to be reduced, to be put back in his rightful place. _The Chancellor knows what is best._

Even so, the pang of anxiety had indeed revealed itself, vacating its burrow deep within and surfacing as Ga'lean wobbled slightly in the hallway. A confluence of problems, he figured. An agent to manage, a ship to prepare, an enemy to remove. Much was expected from the Praetor, and much he could accomplish. Yet, he feared he would be unable to accomplish everything to its fullest extent. Or that he would do so, but with too much ego, with too much pride that would interfere with satisfying his commitment to the Coalition. _The Coalition must come first. As always._

He had a mantra in the ancient, mostly dead, language that would be perfectly appropriate for this exact concern; however, the words currently escaped him. That sudden loss terrified him — the language was an old one from his home world, and he had asserted himself as one of the few remaining speakers alive. As he struggled with his tongue, he thought again of the marsh. Of the predictable motion of the mossy swirls and eddies. Of his father's wing shielding his son from the brackish water. From the eventual terror he would face. Ga'lean desperately clung to the memory, even with its less savory parts. Home could not be allowed to disappear from his mind. It needed him as much as the Coalition did. _I must protect both. I must protect this galaxy._ His heart steeled. _And the Coalition will do so._

Without his mantra, he needed a few extra moments to calm his mind. He was able to salve his burnt ego with his warrior's focus. Ego's swelling reduced, faded away. Discipline struck again. And peace was restored. He filed away his memory of home, content it would remain safe, and then remembered his mission. The Praetor set himself to task, striding confidently through the heavy iron Chancellery doors and onward to the Leehrran spaceport. _What the Chancellor asks shall be done_.

#


	20. Chapter 19 - Stay and Go

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 19_

 _Stay and Go_

"Stitch, get up! It's time for breakfast."

Stitch opened his eyes. Rays of golden sun passed through bay windows sheathed in diaphanous curtains and dappled the warm and inviting floor. The far-off sound of ocean waves drifted through the open door and lazed about the interior of the home.

He stood up and stretched. His muscles were relaxed. His nose captured the scent of fresh pancakes wafting through the living room. He sleepily plodded to the entryway to the kitchen.

Sitting around the kitchen table, Jumba and Pleakley busied themselves with the day's preparations. The newspaper Jumba had been perusing was tucked cleanly under his arm as he turned to Pleakley and berated him on his choice of wig. "No-no-no. You would be looking much better as redhead." He plopped the vibrant red wig onto Pleakley's shining pale head. Spare strands hid his livid face. Jumba's raucous guffaws rattled the chinaware on the table.

Stitch hopped into his seat. The aromatic pancakes rested in a pile in the center of the table. He observed Pleakley flapping his tentacles halfheartedly at Jumba, who only laughed with greater force, enough so to set the table vibrating. Stitch laid a paw down to stop the knife and fork from shaking their way onto the tiled floor. He drank in the scene, savoring every satisfying moment. It was as if he thirsted to see it, though he could not remember why.

In an effort to dismiss the odd feelings, he directed the cutlery toward a more beneficial purpose, stabbing at the pancakes and coming away with three victims. The butter was slathered and the syrup was poured. He figured Nani had cooked the pancakes before retreating to her room to ready herself — a lengthy process these days. The fork sunk into the fried batter, unleashing a torrent of steam. Jumba and Pleakley were still wrapped up in hairpiece selection, but Stitch did not mind being left to his breakfast. The knife sliced, carving away a chunk sopping with fixings. As he brought the sliver to his mouth, Stitch thought it unusual that Lilo had not gotten to the table yet. It was unlike her to let Stitch beat her to breakfast.

He froze.

 _I've seen this before._

He was on the ground. The chair, the pancakes, the table, Jumba and Pleakley had all vanished. Darkness brewed outside. The wind howled, its cries rattling the glass windows.

"Stitch, get up!" Lilo's voice, somewhere in the house.

"Lilo! Where are you?" he screamed, desperate panic seizing, then energizing, his placid muscles. He skidded into the living room. _Empty!_ The wind screeched, amplifying the house's creaks and groans. The sunlight had almost completely receded.

"Stitch, get up!"

He ran into the main hallway. The windows shattered. The banshees shrieked all throughout his home. Debris whipped through the air. Near the stairs, Stitch lay flat on the ground and covered his head.

 _No. Not this time._ He forced himself up, up to his feet. Claws ground into the teak flooring. Arms raised to protect his face. The wind batted him with books and papers, glass shards, vinyl records, pieces of the travel tube, anything nearby. No light punctured through the veil cast over the house. He stumbled up the first step.

"Stitch, get up…" Her voice was trailing off.

"No! Stitch not lose _yuuga_ again!" he shouted at the impeding darkness. Another step was conquered. And another. He counted in his head. _Four…five…six._ He could barely hear her, a whisper against a gale.

"Stitch…get…up…"

Tears were streaming from his eyes, wiped clean by the squalls. Every step a costly victory in a long and brutal war. It drained his body and his mind. _Almost to the top._

"Stitch…."

" _Naga_! Don't leave Stitch! Stitch can't lose Lilo! Please!" His cries went unanswered, lost in the storm.

He fell onto the second story landing, spent. Every ounce of strength had been sapped. He tried crawling. Arms refused to move. He could barely keep his eyes open. The air yowled in furious agony, yearning to tear apart his home. Oppressive darkness crushed his sapphire frame. His breath was ragged.

"Lilo…no…don't leave…can't … lose…please…stay…."

She was gone.

He succumbed.

And with a frightened start, Stitch awoke to Reuben humming a few bars to a tune whose name floated just out of reach. His cousin was already neck deep in the console again, but his rewiring and tinkering appeared slower, more deliberate, than before. When twisting his arm or his back to snag an errant wire, muscles would involuntarily jerk in a whole-body wince, sporadically blocking his attempts at properly connecting his electrified targets.

The images of a dream gone wrong faded into the cabin as a bleary-eyed Stitch walked to Reuben. Even while trapped in the half-sleep of a restless night, he heeded the motionless guard in the cell nearby. It had uttered nothing during the trip, and maintained its silence when Stitch passed by. _Is he dead?_ the experiment fretted. A minute tremble rushed through a weary body. _Naga, can't be…_ _I made a promise._

The shudder subsided, and he looked to Reuben who, after extricating a still heavily bruised body from mechanical innards, had pulled up several overlapping display windows in the floating planetary diagram.

"Morning, cuz," Reuben started. Despite obvious pains, he retained his jaunty tone. "Man, you look terrible. Feelin' alright?"

Frames from his dream were painted on the cabin walls as phosphenes haunting his eyes. He looked away. They followed. _Reuben can't know. This is my burden to bear._ " _Ih._ Hard to sleep on floor. Not as comfy as hammock."

That elicited a quick chortle from Reuben. "Oh yeah, I know whatcha mean. Ain't gonna nab much beauty sleep in this tin can." Reuben nudged Stitch with his good elbow. Stitch played along with the ribbing, genuinely eager to laugh.

Improved illumination courtesy of fully functional computers let Stitch examine the cabin in earnest. The console banks along the outer wall, alive with lights and sounds, kept a steady hum as he ran his clawed finger across their casings. View screens rendered the resplendence of the star system. Several orbs danced in their eternally-mandated circles around their yellow dwarf host, burning white with the luminosity of myriad fusion reactions that blotted out its starry cousins. One slowly rotating and drab sphere occupied a significant chunk of the view. The lip of some massive crater, a rocky and jagged edge, had just turned past the globe's terminator and caught the brilliance of the cresting star as a fiery diamond.

Reuben's clicked his tongue, drawing Stitch back to the cabin. "So while you were out," he continued, "I was playin' around with the databanks here. Got some interestin' info on our destination."

From the dozen floating windows replete with data, Stitch guessed that Reuben had been at his task for several hours. " _Morcheeba_ …" Stitch gasped as he peered into the pool of knowledge forming around the central console.

"Yeah, I guess it _is_ pretty nice. Lotta stuff on the place. Here, to begin." As he spoke, a goldenrod finger pointed to articles, pictures, and video feeds, introducing corroborating evidence to a jury of one.

"Years ago, Seefyus was a major tech hub. Companies 'round the galaxy developed their best stuff on this planet. Cities pretty much blanketed the whole thing. Ruined the ecosystem with strip mining and barebones environmental laws—planet used ta be pretty green—but they made a lotta people a _lot_ of another type'a green…."

Stitch squinted as he worked to catch onto Reuben's gist. _More tired than I thought_. Reuben sighed while his cousin telegraphed his confusion. "Money, cuz. Lots of money—get it, green?"

He probably got it, so he nodded his assent. Reuben waited a few moments, eyeing his cousin. When Stitch put on a smile and stayed silent, Reuben launched back into his narrative. He gave a few practiced swipes over the holographic interface.

The pictures grew darker. Videos showed mobs, anger, panic. "So then someone had the bright idea to throw organics inna the mix. A new company, flush with cash but short on brains, tried to stick some untested cybernetic implants into squishy bodies. Couple hundred bodies, to be a bit more exact. Most of 'em died…but some escaped." He gestured to a particularly intrepid reporter's compilation of photographs. Gored Seefyans littered a dirt-packed street. They reminded Stitch of a group of geckos he had discovered after a particularly robust afternoon Kaua`i rain had abated. The lizards had met their grisly ends on an island road, covered in the telltale tracks of a merciless car's tires. Stitch shivered as Reuben continued. "Once people found out about the creatures—and the genetic tinkerin' they had also undergone in order to accept the cybernetic upgrades—it caused a panic. Investors fled in droves, and the cash dried up."

A morose vibe intertwined with Reuben's tale. "The cities crumbled, fell apart. The people who stayed faced a rough life. It was…bad." A more recent news report—smiling faces, shaking hands, a massive building glittering under an unforgiving sun—filtered to the front. "They had just started really recoverin' when the Coalition goons showed up and…um, _campaigned_ their way into office." Another headline caught Stitch's eye— _Bribery Abound? Coalition Insider Tells All_. A companion article read, _Coalition Source Found Dead — Believed Suicide by Jumping_ , including a nasty and rather uncouth picture of a splattered Seefyan with the same massive shiny building in the background.

A startled look of mild epiphany crossed Reuben's face. "Y'know, I'd bet ya a Ham n' Swiss that all this had somethin' to do with the ban on experiments like us."

Polite nodding during Reuben's monologue, then Stitch offered his thoughts. "The Coalition?"

Reuben's sardonicism jolted his weary cousin. "Oh, yeah, nobody important. Y'know, just that little ol' political party that'll be takin' over the galaxy from the Federation soon enough…." He leered. "Ya haven't been followin' the galactic news like I told ya to, have ya?

A conciliatory smile and shrug from Stitch.

"C'mon, man," Reuben sighed. "It's important stuff."

" _Oketaka_ ," Stitch relented with little fight. "I'll catch up." Stitch had every intention of fulfilling that promise, though he cleverly avoided adding a time frame for completion before redirecting Reuben's attention to the turning ball outside. While history and politics occasionally entrapped his interest, Stitch cared more about what Seefyus held for him now. "How close are we?" In the view screen, the crater had angled itself almost directly below the orbiter. Stitch could peer into the pockmarked past of the planet, lending visual credence to Reuben's informed report.

"We should enter High Seefyan Orbit in about five minutes. I'll take her down to low orbit, and we'll use one of the shuttles in back to get to the surface—"

Stitch cut him off. " _I_ use, not _we_ use."

Confusion slapped Reuben, its sting manifesting in a small break in fluency. "Wha— no way, man. You can't go down there alone. We…we should go together—"

Stitch gestured at Reuben's arm, darkened by the spreading bruise near a most definitely present fracture. "No. I will do it. You stay on this ship. Tell me where to go."

"B-but cuz, we're a team…." Stitch was adamant in stance and expression. With clear prejudice, Reuben caved. "Fine, okay." His tone flattened. "I'll watch from above. Just go and find us some answers."

Stitch was halfway into the corridor, with the cabin doors whistling as they shut, when Reuben shouted after him, "And be careful too! I can't save yer sorry ass from up here!"

Clamps firmly gripped the orbiter's two remaining children, consanguinity established by their nearly identical blocky forms. Reuben had informed Stitch that his meddling with the central console, and any resultant system alterations, should filter down to all nearby computer systems. When Stitch clambered into a shuttle and fired up the consoles in the cockpit, Reuben's theory was validated. Tantalog graced the screens, elucidating each component's previously unknown purpose. Jumba had programmed Stitch with expertise that would be envied by the most renowned pilots in the galaxy, and with those skills, Stitch deftly manipulated the controls to release the shuttle from its berth and ease out of the now open airlock door.

Seefyus rapidly gobbled up the valuable real estate of the view screen. The extremely high albedo of the ecru surface almost blinded Stitch in the few moments the screen's sensors needed to react and place filters across the artificial vista. That planetary sheen "had been a beacon to guide travelers from across the galaxy to a world teeming with sophistication and riches," as one of Reuben's sources had proudly proclaimed. _Had been,_ Stitch cynically emphasized.

Windswept and jagged ruins visible from low orbit marred a generally smooth face. Signs of development formed glittering glass oases in the sprawling desert. Stitch decayed his ship's orbit. Shielding glowed a belligerent white as the upper layers of air buffeted the craft.

The cities below began to materialize. Ersatz skyscrapers wobbled over the surface, facsimiles of the gargantuan shells that lay like rotted carrion amid shiny new fabrications. The ship bisected wispy clouds and steered toward a family of large dunes that encircled a city.

He clicked on the radio and contacted Reuben. "Did you find a base?" He hoped there would be a center of operations within or near the cities that would resemble a detention area. _Storage for prisoners from Earth_.

"Hmm…" Reuben voice crackled in the speaker. "Well, I'm readin' a lotta coded radio chatter about fifty miles north'a ya. Might be worth a look around."

"Okay," Stitch obliged. He directed his craft northward and calibrated an array of instruments to seek out the radio source.

"Be careful," Reuben warned. "You'll wrap 'round a city— a big city—real soon. I have no clue how they'll react to someone like you wanderin' around."

"Someone like me?" Stitch impishly queried.

He could hear the frustration in Reuben's voice. "Shut up, you know what I mean. Just…watch it." _He must be in a lot of pain_ , Stitch thought, unaccustomed to Reuben rebuking good banter. Somewhat selfishly, he relished this rare moment of outdoing the glib Reuben.

The moment passed too quickly for him. "Hey man, did you bring a gun with ya?"

Stitch took a cursory look around the cockpit, knowing full well no weapon would be on board. "Hmm, _naga_ , no gun here."

An exasperated sigh blared from the cabin speakers. "Look cuz, I know how ya feel. But this…this is different. Ya hafta be careful. Experiments like us, we…well, we aren't too popular 'round these parts'a the galaxy. There're a lotta folks out there who would love ta see us all go. But here, _especially_ here, we gotta watch it. And you're no good to anyone captured or dead, so...um, y'know…I think they would'a understood."

Spellbound by his cousin's assertion, Stitch kept his mouth shut while he mulled. _Would they have understood?_ He glued his eyes to the floor. _This is a special circumstance_ , a small voice cajoled. _You have answers to find_. _You must know why_. _There could be leeway…just this once._

"No," he declared aloud. "Not this time. Not ever." He sank sullenly into the pilot's chair. "I made a promise." He leaned into the built-in microphone, with Reuben waiting on the other end. A panel started flashing. A warning siren rang out.

"Damn, man," Reuben chided. "Guess the city watch is pretty jumpy…their anti-air just targeted ya. I got into the launcher's live feed, but…no, _choota_ , I can't do anythin' to stop it. Ya might wanna do some evadin'."

Seizing control of the yoke, Stitch dragged the ship into a wide arc to put some distance between the city and his ship. The curve would take him back over the desert toward the anomalous signal source. Alarms harmonized in a doleful tune. An active radar tracking display replaced the desert scene in the view screen. Two bright red dots rose from the bottom of the widest of three concentric circles, bearing down on the center. On him.

Stitch frenetically pressed buttons in a vain effort to activate countermeasures. With the dots marching unimpeded toward their goal, Stitch huffed. _Fine, I'll do it myself._ He flipped off the ship's automatic stabilization system, an action that immediately transmitted a status update to the orbiter. "Cuz, uh… are you nuts! Whad'ya doin'!"

Dark eyes never wavered from the radar console. The dots flew. Stitch counted the distance markers, converting the units in his mind. _Three thousand feet…two thousand…one thousand._ Reuben screamed, "I can see the missiles' contrails, man!" Stitch stayed silent, but mischief brightened in dark eyes. " _Stitch_ , do something!"

"Watch this!" He unleashed a maniacal laugh as he fired the starboard thrusters. Without port thrusters compensating in the usual automated stabilizing maneuver, the ship flipped end-over-end and tumbled through the dusty Seefyan sky. Missiles crossed paths, skipping over the ship's shielding like the rocks Stitch and Reuben used to throw along the surface of a glassy pond buried deep in the Kaua`i jungle. The bump triggered proximity fuses. Missiles flew for another few seconds before detonating. Two fiery shockwaves bloomed, and then sluiced over the craft's protective barrier.

After the waves passed, the unharmed ship righted itself, and Stitch reactivated the stabilization program. He braced himself for Reuben's berating. After a few moments of stunned silence and crackling white noise over the radio, "Okay, don't do that again…but I'll admit, that was pretty cool, cuz." _Hmm, guess he can still mellow out pretty fast._

Stitch replotted his destination into the navigation system. As the ship banked slightly, he realized something, and leaned into the microphone. "Hey, you called me Stitch." Reuben using that moniker was an exceptionally rare occurrence, so much so that Stitch felt obligated to demarcate the moment.

"…huh. Yeah, I…uh… I guess I did…well, don't get used to it, champ." _Now that's more like Reuben_ , Stitch amusedly observed.

Smoke twirling in eddies behind the ship, Stitch more cautiously resumed his flight over the harsh Seefyan desert toward whatever lay ahead at the anomalous radio source.

#


	21. Chapter 20 - Paved with Good Intentions

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 20_

 _Paved with Good Intentions_

The sandal swung limply as Cobra clenched the frayed end of the strap. The mud road would lead him all the way back to the town, of that he was certain. But in the gray light of the dawn that comes before the sun really takes hold of the sky, Cobra realized he had lost track of the distance he had covered. Exhaustion had reared its head, and the sandal had swung with less and less vigor the longer and longer he walked.

"I have to get off this island…" he muttered repeatedly, the mantra willing his body to continue. When his eyelids grew heavy, he remembered the flash of light, the wave of heat, and the blast of force. He remembered jumping on the precipice, screaming into the night sky as the shadowy creatures completed their abduction. He remembered the oath he had tried to swear to the little girl.

 _I will keep them safe._

The Kaua`i sun had been high in the sky when he had found her and the blue one nestled into the beach, laughing at the antics of several tourists. It had been some time since the clone army had been defeated, and they had all settled into their new roles. Cobra's was one of constant bickering — with the government to keep funds flowing, with numerous genetic experiments to keep them in line, and with the little girl sitting in the sand to keep her out of harm's way.

He had broken out the Aloha shirt again — "blending in," as the pale noodle alien would spout. It was an unusually hot and bright day, a perfect time for the sunglasses to take residence upon the bridge of his nose. His sandals left divots in the soft sand as he made his way to her. She had been hiding from the world for a few days — he was elated to see her loafing about on the beach now.

She had noticed him, too, and she shouted out in a surprisingly mature voice, "Hey Cobra! Over here!" Lilo had stood up, and he caught his breath once he saw how tall she was. _Where's the seven year old, who could barely climb into my car?_ He smirked and returned the greeting.

The blue one hopped up, too. He looked exactly the same as the day he crashed into Cobra's life — and Lilo's. The wide dark eyes shimmered, almost bashfully. The ears were flopping around in the light breeze kicking up granules of sand. Cobra wondered what could have been vexing the furball, who was typically so vibrant and energized. He soon had his answer.

"We heard you were…."

Cobra was aghast, but as usual, he blanketed it under the trained stoicism. "Who told you?"

"Does it matter?" The clear voice wavered. "Please…please don't leave us!"

Even in her taller body and with her duskier voice, Cobra still heard the seven year old, pleading with him to keep their broken family intact. Like before, a passionate fury had now been let loose, overtaking the sun's heat and intensity. Cobra was glad his eyes were sheathed behind darkened lenses — there was a fair chance he would have broken down without the sunglasses to hide behind. "I don't want to, you must believe that. But my role here on the island, without the potential threats looming anymore…it's been more than a year—nearly two—since the Leroy thing, and the investment now, it's just not popular with mainland bureaucrats. They're pinching pennies, and I'm one that needs to be pinched."

The words felt cruel as they slithered from his mouth. They cut deeply into the little girl whom he had come to save that day so long ago. She had been tough then, raucous and rowdy and unyielding. Surely, she would understand now — that she would be just as tough and raucous and rowdy and unyielding when he really needed her to be.

She would prove to be tough, just not how Cobra had planned. "B-but there _are_ still threats out there! These guys—"she gestured at the blue one, who drooped his ears on cue. "They aren't safe yet! There're still others out there who wanna hurt them!"

"Like who?" Cobra was steadfast in stance, but inside, he was begging for a good answer. _Give me something to take back to them. Give me a reason to stay._

"I! I…." She was trying. Cobra could plainly see it. She wanted to give him an answer as badly as he wanted to have one. She had always been cleverer than most, and Cobra was willing to bet she had caught on to his drift. Though Cobra was officially charged with handling alien affairs on the island, Lilo had really been his guide these many years. She had befriended some strong galactic sources, and the blue one and his kind had buddied up with others across star systems. Were there truly a galaxy-level, clear and present danger to her _`ohana_ and, by proxy, to the Earth, she would think of it.

Waves crashed along the beach, nearing the trio's feet as the tides shifted. Rivulets of seawater were pooling behind her, in much the same way as the tears were pooling in her eyes while her mouth twitched in noncompliance. Cobra sighed and tugged at the seams of his Aloha shirt. The corners were fluttering in the ocean breeze, directing the air to cool his torso. A bead of sweat rolled down past his eye, and with a short burst of wind, the droplet splattered on the darkened lens of his sunglasses. Cobra moved a hand to pull down the glasses and wipe them clean.

" _Meega_ know."

Cobra paused and trained his shaded gaze to the blue one. There remained a bashful aura around him, but when he spoke, it resonated with a surprising confidence. "… _`ohana_ supposed to be good now, _ih_?"

"That's right," Cobra indulged the experiment.

"What if…if _`ohana_ not good?"

"What! Stitch, don't say tha—"

He cut off Lilo with a sharp wave. " _Ih_. Cousins are good. _Isa_ truth. But Cobra…can tell them we are still…dangerous."

Maybe it was how those wide dark eyes glistened in the sunlight, or maybe it was how those ears flopped in the breeze, but Cobra was constantly made to forget how intelligent the blue one actually was. A gifted strategist lay beneath the cute and fluffy exterior. The young idea held some merit, Cobra believed. _It still needs some shaping, but it may just be enough…_.

Still, Cobra's core morality offered its objection. "So you want to lie about it? To the government?"

Lilo seemed to comprehend her partner's larger objective, and jumped to Stitch's aid. "It's not a lie, so much as…a little bending of the truth."

"It's a lie all the same."

She planted her feet in the sand and huffed. Cobra twitched as a near perfect, albeit shorter, facsimile of Nani argued with him. "But—we mean well! It's for the right reasons, Cobra. To take care of his cousins — that's good enough, right?"

 _Yes!_ Cobra's head yelped. It was a brilliant ploy. Distrust of the Kaua`i visitors always ran rampant through Langley. The Leroy Incident had riled the bureaucrats to action — as much as they could managed to be riled, at least — but that energy had been expended quickly. Now, Cobra was only there because it was taking an excruciatingly long while to reassign him.

With the blue one's idea, though, he could remain on the island to ensure the Experiments' compliance with the terms of their stay and maintain order, spinning his bosses' trepidations to his advantage. The vast majority of Cobra's mind was settled on the plan. Yet, a small but vocal bit pushed back. "Lilo, I appreciate it, really. But that's a dangerous game to play, and even if we're doing it for the right reasons, who knows where it could lead? After all, the road to hell is—"

"—paved with good intentions. Yes, I know that." The little dunes of sand forming behind her sandaled heel shifted. As her stance softened, so did her tone. "But all that you do here on the island…it's definitely not about making bureaucrats happy. It's about keeping Stitch and his cousins safe. You've done so much for us already and…whether or not they know it now, those cousins still need you. _We all_ still need you. Please…for us."

The mendacity did not bother Cobra. He was more than happy to keep his superiors uninformed on their progress with the visitors — Cobra always reminded them of his _former_ agent status when they grew impatient or churlish, which had been happening with greater frequency. The kernel of fear he held deep within, then, was not for himself, but rather for them, the family he was charged to keep safe. Inviting more suspicion on the Experiments could hold unintended consequences, ones that Cobra was not sure he was ready to discover, or that the blue one and his kin would be prepared to handle.

But as the blue one stood, slouched but sturdy, Cobra found himself sighing and nodding. Cobra had little other recourse, and he loathed to be transferred to some backwater office without such a scenic view. Plus, she was right.

"…I'll try." It was the best he could offer. It appeared satisfactory.

"Thank you." She scratched the blue one's wild tuft of fur, and he purred gratefully. "No matter how it turns out Cobra…please keep them safe."

 _Say it._ Cobra readjusted the frames on the bridge of his nose. _Tell her you will_. The rivulets were spilling over their shallow pools. They split through the dry sand and surrounded his sandaled feet. He watched the smile break out across the blue one's face. The mendacity did not bother Cobra. The kernel of fear was not for him. _I hope he's ready._

"First things first," Cobra offered instead, "I'll have to get us a budget to work with."

And Cobra had done it — half the old budget, but he had secured a budget nonetheless. And he did it again, and it was halved again, next year. And Cobra had fulfilled his duty. _I had kept them safe._ He passed a charred trunk, granules of ash drifting away in the breeze. The road, the jungle, even the sky was graying as he walked. He would soon crest the hill and arrive back in the remains of the town.

After he tucked away the swinging sandal into a cavernous pants pocket, he reached a meaty hand into his jacket and extricated his cell phone. "Five percent left…plenty," he mumbled to himself. "So long as no one—"

The ringtone was grating. He had half a mind to chuck it over the ledge and watch it tumble down into the glassy oblivion of boiled sea below. The other half, however, had already swiped its acceptance.

"Sir?"

He let the irate voice rattle his speaker for a little bit. "No sir, but I may have found one…no, taken by…no, they weren't responsible for any of this…because I know!"

Cobra did not mean to lose his temper, but the short burst was enough for the irate voice to kick up again. He waited for the appropriate moment. "No sir, I didn't mean—no, we didn't make a mistake…if they hadn't been here? We can't know what would've…maybe something else would've…fine, of course sir. I'll keep looking."

He clutched the phone in a tight grip. He had been walking at a much faster and more furious pace as the terse conversation with Langley had unfolded, and then fallen apart. Ahead and below lay the jutting bits of rubble that comprised the once-vibrant town. Waves lapped anemically over glassed beaches and powdered remains. The teams were still working, but with a much reduced expediency. Many a hazmat-clad worker were sitting on chipped cinder blocks or a pile of someone's home, gesturing wildly, their laughs carrying surprisingly well through the chilly air.

The phone buzzed, and Cobra watched as one percent dropped to zero, and the phone shut down. Disgust and anger finally overwhelmed him. In one smooth motion, the phone took flight, soaring over the edge of the precipice and tumbling down into the choppy glass-filled waters below. Cobra tugged on the sleeves of his jacket, dusting off the lapels, and replaced the darkened lenses atop the bridge of his nose right as the sun finally broke over the horizon.

 _I will keep them safe, Lilo._

"I have to get off this island." He was walking toward the center of town, which the rising sun illuminated with a lazy light. He glared past the dejected clusters of humanity to a small inlet nestled in the trees. He knew what lay beyond. "I just hope it's still there."

#


	22. Chapter 21 - Slithering Wind

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 21_

 _Slithering Wind_

Dunes of ecru sand whizzed by underneath his dropship. He neared the signal anomaly. Radio chatter near a city was not shocking, but the heavy encryption enshrouding the communications told Stitch that this site would hold valuable information. He gently glided the ship to within half a mile from the source's center, tossing up a furious cloud of sand as the landing pads touched down.

The insalubrious heat dried his dark eyes moments after he opened the door. His sapphire fur devoured the alien sunlight. The tropical and humid climate of Kaua`i would siphon off all his energy over the course of a day spent frolicking about the island—this environment would do so in half the time.

"Hey man, before you go," Reuben called from the cockpit. "Grab the portable comms link." Stitch rummaged around the bin below the pilot's chair and dug out a small red disk. He activated it and entered the orbiter's comms code, dictated meticulously by Reuben. Choppy video twitched to life on the minute screen. "Hmph, can't get…signal link. Can you switch…audio…." Stitch anticipated his cousin's request and obliged. The display went dark.

Stitch stepped out of the shuttlecraft onto scalding sand. Savoring the grains that squished and squashed beneath his feet, he pined for his beach on Earth. _It's glass now_ , memory reminded _._ Rage festered in his gut. He half-heartedly suppressed it.

"Cuz, can ya check your output signal? Havin' a little trouble followin' ya." Stitch returned to the device, its display now plotting simple graphs of connectivity and battery life, and fidgeted with it. The sand rebounded the light almost as efficiently as the mirror in the Kaua`i lighthouse where one cousin had so brilliantly found his purpose. His severe squint had him barely able to discern the commands he entered. Several mistaken entries prompted a quick daydream of shredding the device. Further erroneous selections had claws quivering in anticipated catharsis. Finally, a moment before he was to act on his dream, he coaxed a positive-sounding beep from it.

"Okay?" Stitch impatiently plied. The oppressive heat bore down. His laboriously earned even temper would evaporate soon.

"Okay, hold yer horses, champ…I think, yep, signal looks good on my end. I got the anomaly a couple thousand feet north of ya, other side'a that big-ass dune." Stitch had just transited into the sandy mountain's substantial umbra. "Better start climbin', bud," Reuben seemingly garnished with a hint of pleasure. Stitch thought Reuben was extracting far too much enjoyment from his cousin's unfortunate situation.

Three steps in, he immediately doubted Reuben's approximation of _big-ass_. Stitch scanned the towering mound that stretched to the edges of his vision. His ride home, nestled in the trough of two massive sandy waves, would benefit from excellent shelter. Stitch's climb over this monstrosity would be the cost for such favorable cover.

The communicator chirped. "Hey cuz, just relax, okay? This ain't easy, I know. But ya gotta keep yer cool. Spinnin' yer ship was one thing…but ya don't wanna go and do somethin' you're gonna regret."

 _What do you know about it?_ Stitch snapped in his head. He forced himself to stop climbing and inhaled deeply. Arid Seefyan air desiccated his mouth. _He's trying to help._ " _Oketa_ —" he cackled through parched lips. He waited a moment as his throat moisturized. "…okay. I will be careful," he coolly completed. The communicator fell to his side. He noticed how tightly he was clenching it. Drawing in another breath, he eased his grip, and resumed his hike.

Panting as he made his way up the slope, he surveyed the skyline aside the dune. In the distance towered lopsided buildings—obviously erected in haste—in a tight cluster, their features obscured by hazy heat. Before them, the interspersed husks of ancestral constructs decayed under an eternal sun, the memories of a once-proud civilization fading into the ecru dust of the desert. _Experiments caused all that?_ He suddenly sympathized with those whose lives had been ruined by sloppy protocol and injudicious risks.

Jumba had created him in an isolated laboratory, where he could pose no real direct threat. Despite Jumba's proclivity toward galactic domination achieved through terrifying force, Stitch's creator had taken many sagacious precautions in birthing his creations. _But what if it_ had _gone wrong?_ Stitch recalled the masks of horror and disgust the Federation delegates wore in the Grand Hall during his trial. Their jeers and cries pealed as the Grand Councilwoman disdained with unblinking obsidian eyes. A mat of grimy fear clung to the glass of his hovering prison as he was carted away from the gross and cruel bacchanal.

After his escape, Stitch had nearly followed in the footsteps of those hideous creations that tore apart this planet. Meaningless, purposeless. But, he had discovered his purpose with his _ohana_. They gave him a structure to latch on to, a reason to be — meaning and purpose — and hope for his future. _Without that_ , he wondered, _would I have been like them?_ He looked to the far-off crumbling concrete carrion, and an icy grip clenched the gut heated by the Seefyan sun. _Without my ohana now, will I become them?_

He went prone as he crested the dune. His eyes, even under extreme duress from the sunlight, magnified his view several times and clarified the picture. Five plastic hemispherical domes, in worse shape than the buildings on the skyline, were arranged at the points of a massive invisible star. Pairs of guards paced the outer rims with guns drawn, parading in the same armor of the creatures on the orbiter. From the star's center rose a colossal latticed metal tower.

He checked in with Reuben. "I found something. Looks like a base—but not much here."

Static intermingled with Reuben's voice. "Cuz. Can't hear…well. You're…out. Only got…piece of…." The line went dead. Stitch rattled the device while furiously tapping the display. The line of the connectivity graph plummeted.

"Pah, c _hoota_ ," he cursed as he chucked the communicator into the sand behind him. "Do it myself," he resolved. He inched forward on his belly, hanging precariously over the precipice. Grains of sand rolled past his head and down toward the distant ground. He studied the area, working to plan his point of entry. And without warning, the dune imposed its own solution.

Instantly, the world blackened. Stitch was shoved, pushed away, down. The spinning was the worst — far worse than he had accomplished with the ship. And yet, when the sand avalanche concluded, Stitch found that he had rolled within a hundred yards of the base. He had been caught completely off guard by the slide, as had the sentries now buried deep within. Though his head still spun from the tumble, Stitch retained enough sense to move away from the impending onslaught of soldiers en route to investigate the slide. He stumbled forward, flailing two sets of arms for balance. With little time to spare, he covered the distance and flopped behind one of the plastic edifices. The tips of his exposed antennae pattered on the malleable material. The soft sound alerted Stitch to the slippage in appearance, and he quickly retracted the extraneous parts.

While gray guards swarmed around the pile of sand, Stitch ran his hands along the building's side, taut plastic buttressed by metal honeycombs, and sought his entry point. When he pushed, the plastic resisted with a bizarre strength. But it did not resist his finely sharpened claws, and he slipped inside the tear.

The dimly lit room was relief to his eyes. A few quick blinks adjusted his vision. The dome was loaded from floor to ceiling with plain plywood boxes, all of equal size, and all big enough to hide a crouching Stitch. Stitch walked to one separated from its companions and pried it open. The bottom laid bare. He kicked over a stack of boxes nearby, indifferent to the noise it would create. They splintered as they crashed against the ground. _Nothing,_ he grumbled. _Why guard empty boxes?_

He returned to the tear and plotted a path to another hemisphere. The guards were poking at the landslide with sporadic laser blasts. A few amused gurgles spilled from their headgear. When they were turned toward their entertainment, Stitch made a five hundred foot beeline for the next dome. He crashed into the side and rebounded off warping plastic. He easily incised the cover and snuck through.

More of the same boxes piled haphazardly, the stacks again almost scraping the top of the dome. A few laid open. Stitch peeked inside one. Neatly positioned in the corner sat a square. He grabbed it and turned it over in his hands. His fingers unwittingly indented the pliable slate gray putty. Out of curiosity, he ripped off a segment and probed it with his tongue. He puckered bitterly and cursed his genetically programmed inquisitiveness.

He loosely cradled the brick as he perused the rest of the dome. Box lids were strewn about the floor, their lips marred by hurriedly employed crowbars. _Why the rush?_ Cheap plastic constructs suggested to Stitch the guards had arrived not long before the two of them, but the strange armored creatures had certainly availed themselves of that head start. _But why?_ He squeezed the brick.

Shouting erupted outside. Stitch sprinted to the tear and poked out his head. Several gun barrels waggled wildly at the dune's crest. Guards had congregated in front of the pile, conversing rapidly in some other language, familiar yet totally foreign. After some squabbling, a few curt nods passed through the group and they dispersed. All but one crossed the compound and disappeared behind a low ridge. The leftover took a bearing toward the large central metal tower.

 _They're onto something_ , Stitch concluded. Crouched against the outside of the dome, he tracked the lone guard. It knelt in front of the tower and entered several commands into a holographic display. Stitch tried to magnify his view, but the contrast of the intense sun interfered. He could only see the guard rise after a few seconds and take off to join his comrades.

Stitch bided his time until the armored figure exited his line of sight, then he sprinted to the tower. The display popped up automatically when he neared it. Stitch battled with the harsh light to read the coalescing symbols. Characters in the strange language of the orbiter sorted themselves into orderly blocks. One of the blocks changed at regular intervals. His blood curdled. _A countdown._

He began touching several of the character blocks. A disquieted part of his mind openly and vigorously questioned his meddling. _I don't know what this does_ , Stitch heard over and over again. Yet, the speed at which the guards had fled from the tower trumped the noisy concern. Blocks split apart, shattered, and reassembled. The countdown inexorably marched on.

 _You should have saved them._

His ears perked up. They swiveled to capture more of the whisper. He broke concentration to glance around him. The domes rustled in a dusty wind that had kicked up. Stitch thought the sandy breeze was playing a cruel trick on him, and he went back to the task at hand.

It whispered closer, sounds tickling the short hairs on his ears. _You should have saved them._

In the incredible heat of the desert, he suddenly felt cold. Frigidity crawled up his arms and legs, freezing their movements. He tried to brush it off, but it spread, coiled, a vaporous snake wrapping insidiously around his body. _You let them die_ , it sibilated.

It tightened its stranglehold. His spines pierced the midnight splotch on his back. Antennae sprouted from his head. Horrendous murmurs flooded into his ears. _It is your fault._

It constricted him. Breath shortened. _You are weak without them._

He fell to the ground, writhing in agony. Eyes shut tight. Hands pressed firmly against his ears. Spines dug into the sand. Muscles ached. Pressure crushed. _They died because of you._

" _Naga_!" he roared. " _Naga_! No!"

Stitch rebelled. He swung madly at the air. He pounded the ground. His tears slaked the parched dust. "Go away!" he screamed at nothing.

And then, mercifully, the snake uncoiled. It slithered off his limbs. Even after it fully retreated, tiny spasms racked his sapphire body. He realized they were sobs.

He forced himself to draw in slow and deep breaths. As his body relaxed, so did his mind. Spines and antennae receded. Methodically, he pushed himself off the ground and strained his ears, scanning for the serpentine sound. Rustling plastic and whistling dust was all he heard, and so he returned to the display. He weakly prodded the hologram. The countdown block still shifted. A jolt of hope. _I can still stop it!_

A rapport echoed. He turned. Airborne debris shone over the massive dune behind him, glinting like jewels as they tumbled through ballistic trajectories. A plume of smoke curled upward and dirtied the crystalline sky. More explosions popped like the firecrackers Stitch would light and toss during a Fourth of July beach party with his _ohana_. Several more black clouds swirled and entwined into a menacing column.

Three short beeps emanated from a point on the star. Stitch stared, unable to move, as a dome detonated in a spectacular fireball. The other four concurrently ruptured and ignited a star of flame. More explosions, and the tower's support beams shattered. It shrieked as it collapsed on itself, sending metal shards rocketing through the compound's ruins.

He ducked. Instinctual. Stitch covered his head as the blasts charged him. Heat fried the ends of his hairs. Ears burned. But not before they heard the slithering sound, the dusty wind rising above the tumultuous destruction.

 _You let them die._

The roaring blaze swallowed his savage bellow.

#


	23. Chapter 22 - Shroud

**_A/N: At first, this part may seem out of place, or disconnected from the main story. But, it does have a purpose, which you will see as the story unfolds. This chapter will become important later, so please tell me what you think of it. Thanks for reading - Euphonemes_**

* * *

 _Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 22_

 _Shroud_

Tren-oot-hwan stretched his long tail and ridged back as he exited the first floor of his apartment complex. Weathered and leathery terra cotta skin showed minor wrinkles, a consequence of life on xeric Seefyus. A wide-set pair of tan-tinged eyes glanced briefly at the blazing Seefyan sun. They blinked confusedly, unaccustomed to sunlight after a long night in front of a holographic display.

He set off to his place of work, a start-up venture in FTL communicator applications that had recently conducted a none-too-shabby round of capital investment. With the technology restrictions emergent from the Coalition's recent seat-nabbing efforts in the Seefyan Diet, such success had surpassed Tren-oot-hwan's wildest expectations. He had already forwarded to his office the code he had devised during this latest late-night binge, the pieces of a fledgling project of his own design — he had lobbied for what seemed like endless cycles to secure the time to begin, and the inflow of fresh resources had allowed him to make his dream a reality. With the evening still clinging to him, though, he decided to take it slow on his way in today.

Several of his neighbors greeted him as he sauntered along the scenic route to the office. He waved a plump hand at his landlady, a kindly immigrant from a far-flung world whose name Tren-oot-hwan could never pronounce correctly thanks to his native Seefyan dialect. The young boy who lived with his single mother down the hall from his cramped apartment trotted back from the market, his skinny arms barely containing the cornucopia of "fresh" Seefyan fruits and vegetables.

Tren-oot-hwan had quite the soft spot for the boy's mother, a delicate creature whose ruby skin glistened atop a toned and incredibly appealing figure, and whose cobalt eyes shone brilliantly, especially so when they first touched the morning Seefyan light. He had resolved himself time and again to ask her out for a drink after work. _Maybe today will be different,_ he would think as he assessed his perpetually aging body in his bathroom mirror every morning. But courage abandoned him whenever she emerged from two doors down to travel to her job—still a mystery to Tren-oot-hwan—exactly when he returned from a physically draining yet emotionally stimulating ten hour shift at the office.

His communicator rudely chimed its reminder to contact his brother. Tren had read the note earlier on Wren's victorious campaign for his third term as the president of the homeowners' association for his neighborhood on the outskirts of the Seefyan capital. Such matters that bore little significance to Tren had always been of grave importance to Wren. And to their mother.

"Look at my wonderful boy and all his success!" she would fawn over Wren at family dinners, always lamenting how her first and fantastic child had not made time for a wife. Wren would play along for the first few minutes, then bashfully retreat into the communicator he stealthily wedged between his thighs — a trick he had learned from Tren — under the white lace tablecloth stained ecru by spills and tumbles of food and drink wasted in hotly contested dinnertime debates. Tren could expect a scolding if he did not add to the saccharine adorations heaped by Mother. Accordingly, Tren would send the obligatory congratulatory note when he arrived at his office.

A few pieces of desiccated produce had tumbled unseen from the boy's grasp. Black, shriveled, the fruit still gave to Tren's touch. He knew not to pop it into his mouth, lest the bitterness have him puckering his lips until he left the office. More of a garnish, he had recognized. He wondered what exotic dishes the boy's mother could create with such an ugly fruit. _Something exquisite_ , he quietly hoped. Fruit clenched between two digits, Tren turned to shout after the child.

"Tren!" Shant-eft-moran sprinted up to meet his dear friend, his tangerine scales glinting as he strode. The two had become acquainted at the local university, and during their program — wherein they both excelled — they had grown inseparable. As a programming team, they were unequalled. Tren hated to admit it, and would under no circumstance tell it to his face, but Shant far surpassed Tren's coding skills. On days with nearly unbearable workloads and impossible deadlines, days which were quickly multiplying with this new project, Tren fretted that he had simply latched onto the coattails of his gifted companion. That feeling abated every time Shant devolved into a scatter-brained mess at the slightest hint of criticism of his work. Tren's ability to calm the spastic Shant was legend throughout their circle.

"Shant! What's new?" Tren inquired as they clasped meaty hands. Three digits interlocked in a secret method they had developed one late night at university after too many firewater shots.

"I just had this great new idea for the app! You'll _love_ it!" His already squeaky countertenor broke as his excitement summited. Shant was one of the extremely few who would actually quiver at the thought of Tren's project. So far, Shant's tirelessly dedicated work had proven invaluable.

"Great! What is it?" Tren's soothing baritone harmonized.

"It's…um…it's…gah, I lost it!"

"Don't worry, friend," Tren assured his pal with a small chuckle. "I'm sure it'll return to you." It rarely did, but Tren never liked to cause Shant any more concern than was necessary. He threw an arm around Shant's sloping shoulders, and pulled him onto the path.

Tren examined the bustling streets of Pthlonia as the duo headed to their shared office. Fellow Pthlonians hurried along the grid of compacted dirt roads toward various destinations. The morning had nearly concluded — Tren's office opened later than most — and yet people, energized by purposes unknown to him, clogged the narrow city avenues. Swathes of dust kicked up by the activity obnubilated the bustling urbanites.

"It sure is busy today," Tren commented aloud. Shant had no remark.

"…Shant?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry brother. Just tryin' to find that idea again…now what was it…?" He scrunched his face in deep contemplation — another of Shant's ineluctable reactions. Tren barely stifled a laugh at his goofy look. Shant would rarely notice these moves, leaving Tren to fend off wary passers-by and the occasional brusque comment in the office. Tren knew his years of experience with handling Shant had brought a certain desensitization with his peculiarities, but each new jab brought out an innate defensiveness, which had alienated more than a few of Tren's coworkers. Yet Shant was worth a thousand of them, and Tren remembered that whenever Shant unleashed another nonsensical rant or incredibly uncouth look.

No such rant today, fortunately, as Tren and Shant passed through several unpleasant dust clouds fogging the street on their arrival at the front of their building, a year-old radiant skyscraper containing their office. Most of the floors were gaudy and cheap, hastily tossed together to complete the project on time and within budget. But, surprisingly, they had secured luxurious accommodations in the penthouse suites nearly one hundred floors aloft, which provided a stunning and jealousy-inducing vista of their vibrant city. Tren had considered who among the staff had actually delivered the bribe to obtain those offices, but would give the thought up every time he stepped from the lift and saw the Seefyan sun crest the far-off Great Crater.

"Aha! Got it!" Shant exclaimed as they both reached for the door's sleek silver handle. "It's brilliant! It's—"

A rapport echoed through the streets. The scent of powdered concrete wafted over Tren's sensitive nose, the two nostril slats in his oblong head picking up an oddly mephitic odor.

"What was that?" Shant asked his friend.

"I don't know. Maybe a vehicle busted someth—"

Another rapport rocketed along the avenues, stirring up more dust. From high up, glass shards from shattered office windows showered the pedestrians.

Another bigger boom sent a shockwave surging after the one before. Tren flinched as more of the sounds assaulted Pthlonia. The bustle of beings transformed into a tumultuary mob, stampeding like Seefyan wildbeasts in instinctual fear down the dirt roadways.

Tren took off and bisected the crowd. They flowed around him as he stumbled forward into an empty alleyway. He turned back to see Shant staring stupidly at the scene. He cried out to Shant, but the herd trampled his message. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, Tren left his friend. Alone, Tren jogged down the alleyway.

Tren was awash with guilt as dust began blotting out the rising sun. He knew Shant would not fare well alone in this situation — whatever situation this ended up being. Even events within Shant's control would have his tangerine scales shaking in no time. Regardless, Tren had reasoned, he needed to find out what was happening. Then he could report back to Shant, and explain this whole mess. Help him understand, and work through it. _Like I always do_. The alleyway let out onto a small incline, from where Tren absorbed the city.

Far off toward the industrial district, plumes of smoke polluted the crisp Seefyan air. Dots of fires winked around one concentrated area. The fire brigades had convened on the region and their smothering gases set about a swirling miasma of dust and soot that clung low to the ground. Between these eddies, mobs of creatures were clotting the city's arterial roadways.

He strained to see where exactly the fires burned. He had lived in Pthlonia since his university days, and had explored most notable locations in the city. He flipped through a mental checklist. _Industrial, centrally located, large area,_ his mind raced.

The brave firefighters had made remarkable headway against the blazes when Tren-oot-hwan reached his conclusion. Tan-tinged eyes flew open. He could just make out the hairline fractures along the structure's concrete enclosures, lambent with internal conflagrations. Tail twitched. Legs gave out. He fell to the ground.

For no explicable reason, he first thought of Shant, how his friend would come to terms with what lay ahead. There would be little time to do this, Tren reminded himself, yet the guilt resurged. Three digits curled, and mimed their secret handshake. Right now, Tren missed the comfort that even a deliriously manic Shant could provide. He had half a mind to go back, to shove through the crowd which was panicking with good cause, and embrace his friend. To calm him down and make sense of it all — even if he himself could not. Lazy legs, paralyzed with fear and acceptance, kept him on the lookout point.

The single mother of the boy who lived down the hall ambled by him, caught his tan-tinged eyes as they lolled about in a mixture of utter dismay and total reconciliation. A fantasy of a mind unable to cope with its present situation, he surely rationalized. Yet Tren shuddered when she laid down beside him and caressed his creased face with anodyne fingers. Her ruby skin glistened with such allure. Her cobalt eyes shone, even in the dying light of an enshrouded sun. _The dish_ , he suddenly wondered as she shifted on the dirt, _I'd like to try it. That fruit is quite atrocious. What would it make?_

Her child, would he be afraid? Would she be comforting him? Wrapping her toned arms around the boy, perhaps humming some sweet tune, feeding him bites from a meal whipped up from the desiccated Seefyan produce he had lugged home. Selfishly, Tren wanted to be there, in her arms. Gazing into cobalt eyes, which would no doubt also be frozen in comprehension. But there nonetheless, with her.

But he would need to act. The nerve rose, activated, energized. Still, he could not move, though he longed to be at his apartment door, key in hand. To stop her as she went to provide for her charge, locking eyes, the cobalt shining as always. Words were there, ready to change everything. Tren reached out a trembling hand. A hint of a smile cracked ruby skin. His voice awoke.

"Today will be different."

The intense white flash scorched his retinas. Cobalt eyes disappeared. He flailed in newfound darkness. Heat — not like usual Seefyan heat, but molten, primordial, enraged heat — lit his skin aflame. Nerves evaporated — only the sensation of heat. No pain. Good.

In his final moment, Tren-oot-hwan envisioned the towering portents of death for his beloved city that would mar the crisp Seefyan air above the fusion reactors going critical.

The supersonic blast wave impacted his frail form.

A cloud of dust blew on the Pthlonian road.

#


	24. Chapter 23 - And Then the Rain

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 23_

 _And Then the Rain_

He rolled down the backside of the dune and landed sloppily in a small valley. Lying on his back and panting, Stitch took a short but deserved reprieve. He had crawled and hobbled through the tattered plastic and metal shards of the obliterated encampment, and then up the hill of searing sand with a slope gentled by his earlier tumble. Even as dusk descended upon the shimmering desert, the heat still oppressed. He lazily played with a patch or two of singed fur. Crisped ear tips howled as he accidentally dragged them across harsh granules. A warm breeze blew, and he savored its gentle kiss on his cheek while he stared up at the darkening sky.

Several hazy mushroom clouds, frightening even as they were dissipating, contused the crisp atmosphere. An eerie glow ignited the horizon. Stitch had guessed the bricks he uncovered in the compound were involved in some of the explosive damage. Fortunately, he had reached that conclusion before the one he had been holding was able to blast a significant divot into his palm. Still, the extent of the destruction along the city's eradicated skyline baffled him.

The aberrant sight of thick storm clouds rolling in over the desert gave him pause. Deep slate gray nimbuses only managed to cover the menacing sun in a gossamer curtain. They had set in over the ruins already, a drenching darkness that lent a shocking chiaroscuro to the picture of destruction. An oily drop splashed onto Stitch's nose.

The rain convinced a tired body to begin again. He resumed his murderously languid crawl toward his shuttlecraft. More slick drops stuck to sand. The petrichor wafted from the arid ground, but Stitch ignored the sickly sweet scent. Wanderlust had been dampened, demolished in the raging fireball, and he wanted nothing more now than to return to the orbiter. Coming up from the ditch, he closed in on his parking spot, and curiously noticed it to be devoid of his ship.

A crater had replaced his vessel. Finely powdered debris dotted the immediate landscape in the aftermath of a textbook scuttling. Stitch's heart sank.

With no communicator, and the radio in the craft vaporized, Stitch could not reach Reuben. A chilly fear crept up each vertebra. _I'm stuck on Seefyus._ The thought seeped in like the rare gift of water being dragged down by the thirsty sand underfoot. Dejectedly, Stitch dragged himself through the blast area and halted in the crater's center. Though the rain had graduated to a torrent that cooled his blue fur with a grimy coat, the unforgiving heat won out. He collapsed.

The waning rays of sunlight that somehow pierced the tumultuous clouds pummeled his back — the Seefyan sun was a sore winner. The temperature had been intolerable even before he crested the dune. With the humidity climbing during the sticky downpour, the heat index neared lethal as he lay flat and exposed. In the midst of feverish delirium, he momentarily conceived of a life on Seefyus. _It's quiet, it's calm. No neighbors around for miles._ He managed a mordant chuckle before he closed his eyes.

But a distant rumbling kept him awake and alive. Dust and sand scratched at his face. He shot up, spitting out particles. A couple dozen feet above him, a shuttlecraft, a dead ringer for his late ship, hovered. Spheres of the black water shot off its filmy surface. Dazedly, with claws raised and teeth bared, Stitch made a good effort of growling at the craft. _I've come too far to let them take me now_ , his inner voice hoarsely barked.

The ship shakily lowered to a few feet from touchdown. With a hiss, the side door slid open. A goldenrod head stuck out of the entryway.

"What're ya doin'?" shouted Reuben over the boisterous engines rapaciously consuming the awful desert air. "You gonna eat me or somethin'? How dehydrated _are_ ya? Put those claws away and get in the shuttle!"

Stitch disarmed and appreciatively clambered into the central compartment. He fell onto the deck as he expended his last bits of energy. Reuben pulled his cousin up and dusted him off while Stitch sucked in the cool air.

"Geez, yer drenched…okay man, let's getcha into a seat." Reuben dragged Stitch into one of the chairs bolted into the wall and engaged the straps. They enfolded Stitch, and a wan smile emerged on his battered face.

"Alrighty bud, you just hang tight. We'll get back to the ship." Reuben perched in the pilot's chair and guided the ship through the roiling cloud cover and into the stratosphere.

Stitch lolled. Shadows flitted by. Voices chattered. _It is your fault._ He grabbed at sleep, and it slipped through his fingers like fine grains of Seefyan sand. A chill encircled him. It penetrated his fur. Muscles tightened. Bones ached. Stitch shivered, all over and all at once.

Then, abstract shapes formed. Light and dark, then grays before color. Agonizingly slowly, but with determination, he roused from his trance. Some amount of time had elapsed, he could tell. He rubbed his groggy eyes before unbuckling and falling to the cabin floor. The resistance of the artificial gravity field had blindsided him. Stitch forcefully pushed off the deck and wobbled to his feet. Gaining his bearings on the fly, he wandered into the cockpit. Reuben had activated the ship's autopilot, allowing him to loaf in the plush pilot's chair.

"Well hey there, cuz. Good to see ya up and movin'," Reuben cheered. Stitch could see through the view screen that the ship had breached the Seefyan atmosphere. From this height, the mushroom clouds were little bruises besmirching the planet's ecru skin. The injury was spreading with the irate black clouds, all turning toward the perpetually burning sun.

Ahead, their puny orbiter floated in a vast inky sea. Reuben would line up for final approach shortly. Millions of stars bobbed, maintaining their celestial vigils. They stole Stitch's breath, but he could not name a single one. _They are not my stars._

"You okay, cuz? You were soaked, but it looks like — yeah, ya dried up nicely. Hell of a rainstorm, huh?"

Stitch rubbed his tender head and squinted into one of the cockpit's blank screens. Flecks of soot, leftovers from the evaporated water, spattered his reflected face. " _Ih._ Rain…." Stitch teetered back on uncertain heels. He threw his hand out and steadied himself with Reuben's chair.

"Hey now, take it easy. You've…been through a lot." His statement hinted of empathy, but Reuben's typical effervescence had flattened.

Stitch only barely noticed during his mind's reboot. " _Ih._ A lot. Been a…long day." He rapidly blinked in an otiose effort to shed confusion through his eyes. While still rather lost, his wandering gaze did not miss the shiny bottle in the bin at the rear of the cockpit. He stumbled over like a toddler, gripped the bottle with two hands, and gave it a shake. Liquid sloshed. He greedily fumbled for the lid and messily downed the contents. The sparkling water spilled across his face and soaked his chest. The empty bottle clattered as it hit the floor. Eyelids sank in satiety as he ambled back to Reuben.

"Say there champ, how'd ya know that was gonna be water?" Reuben posited.

His mind gained speed, but not fast enough to produce a viable answer. "...uh..." Stitch hesitated to explain it was a guess — a good one, but a guess all the same. The bottle, he recalled, had no markings denoting its contents. It could have been a can of oil, or something truly dangerous. He softly chided himself, a quiet lecture to take greater care when opening strange containers.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Stitch was gravely concerned that Reuben would lecture him aloud. But, his cousin simply leaned further back into the plush chair, though he failed to look like his usual relaxed self. A little more on edge, Stitch thought.

Stitch decided to change directions. "So...how did you find me?" a clearer voice returned.

"Well, I, uh…I guessed. Took a stab at it, y'know? Figured you'd eventually wander back to your ship. All I had to do was wait for yer arrival. Besides, that shiny blue coat stands outta bit." Reuben offered a lackluster chuckle.

Stitch had started to catch on. The stale yet soothing air of the shuttlecraft, coupled with the clean and cold water, did wonders for clear-headedness. But, he was still unsure where he should take it. "Thanks for getting me out of there," Stitch said.

"Sure, sure…so, um…" Reuben faltered. His eyes waltzed away from his cousin's stare. His goldenrod body stiffened. Stitch tossed him a perplexed look.

"Ah, never mind." A tic manifested in Reuben's fingers. They twitched on the console as if dancing atop freshly fueled tiki torches. Reuben's tightly pursed lips held back something of consequence. Stitch hunted for it.

"What?" Stitch probed. Reuben shook his head noncommittally. _After three years under the same roof, he'll need to do better than that._ "Cousin, what is it?" he pressed for an answer.

Taking in a deep breath, Reuben suddenly opened the floodgates. "Okay cuz, I gotta know what went down out there. I lost contact with ya for a little while when the orbiter went and orbited the planet — lost my line'a sight and all. By the time it came round again…well, it looked pretty damn bad from where I was. So what happened?"

Stitch relayed his story in painstaking detail. His ears burned again, and the rush of the shock wave flattened his fur. He warmed under the Seefyan sun throughout the tale. By its end, though, the look on Reuben's face easily disclosed his skepticism, and chilled Stitch to the bone.

"Alright man, that makes sense," Reuben lied. "But ya know what happened to that city, right? Why you were gettin' rained on in a desert?"

Stitch produced a telltale blank stare.

"The city had a cluster'a nuclear fusion reactors for a main power source. There were some explosions at the main plant, then they all went haywire. The city is…gone. Blown off the face'a Seefyus. There's nothin'."

Stitch latched onto the seatback to stop himself from falling over. _Gone?_ Mushroom clouds loomed in his mind. _Some buildings, I thought, that must have been it. But the whole city…gone._ "I…I-I didn't know. I swear, cousin."

"Okay, okay. It's just…when I was lookin' for ya, I found the city and that encampment totally cratered. I wanna know what did that. That brick of stuff you said ya found. Did ya see any, like, detonators or blastin' caps, somethin' to stick in it to blow it up?"

Raising his head, Stitch reminisced. The gray square firmly planted in hand, he perused the aisles of boxes. Empty crates passed by. Frustration mounting, he shook his head as he extricated himself from the thought. "No. Nothing like that."

"Alright then. Was there a transmitter of some kind? Maybe I missed it on the flyby—"

" _Ih!_ Yes, there was!" Vivid images of the metal tower appeared. The countdown ticked again. His chest tightened. A voice emanated from the depths. _You should have saved them._ He irritably shut it out.

"Hmm…that's weird. I didn't pick up any radio transmissions. Or signals of any kind from around that encampment."

Stitch steadfastly argued, "No. No, not right. I saw a countdown. The guard touched it. It did… something..." he ended more quizzically than he planned.

"Okay, okay, so maybe it did somethin'." A serious look passed over Reuben's face. Stitch rarely saw his cousin sport such a visage. "You sure you didn't leave the encampment?"

" _Ih_ , positive. I…why do you ask?" Stitch wondered aloud. _Am I being interrogated?_ Stitch wondered within.

"No reason. I guess…it's that you were gone for a long time. Looks like ya gotta bit burnt too. I just thought…never mind, forget it, man."

Under the artificial cabin light, Stitch inspected the singed and dirtied patches of his fur in earnest. The normally brilliant sapphire had definitely adopted a smokier hue. He rather liked it. "No, wait, you…." Like the menacing sun cresting the horizon, the truth dawned on him. "You think _I_ blew it up?" A terrible and personal hurt seeped into his tone. _How could he think that of me? He knows me better than that!_

"Well, cuz, you were pretty hot when ya touched down. Awfully adamant about goin' alone, too," Reuben snapped back.

"Your bad arm!" Stitch manically gestured at Reuben's bruised limb. "You could not go!"

"Well…actually, _you_ said I couldn't go…."

"What is the difference?"

"…it's not important, Stitch."

" _Ih_ , it is important. What is the problem?"

" _Nothing_ is the problem—"

"What problem!" Stitch hollered.

" _Hey_!" Stitch blinked, dumbfounded at the novelty of Reuben's anger. His cousin must have noticed, too, and Stitch heard him draw in a couple ragged breaths. "Like I said," he continued only slightly cooled, "just forget it, cuz." Reuben tried to turn away.

" _Naga_! You really don't believe me, do you?" Stitch questioned testily.

"…no…I do…I already... already said I believe you," he mangled his words in an uncharacteristic loss of fluency. "I'm just…y'know, just drop it." Mellowness fractured. Stitch was stunned into silence that hung in the shuttlecraft until the hull rang with the sound of the docking bay's clamps locking into place. Air pressure equalized with a long hiss. Reuben pressed a button, and the door swung open. "Look. Let's just get in there and figure out our next steps." He hopped down from the chair and exited the craft.

Alone for an instant, Stitch was suddenly attacked and immobilized by the voice. _It is your fault_. It invaded his brain. He could feel it squeezing. Heating. A rage rapidly came to a boil in Stitch.

He pursued Reuben. He found his goldenrod cousin playing with the central console, his typically calm demeanor obviously ruffled. "Why don't you believe me?" Stitch hounded his cousin.

"Oh, come off it, cuz!" His voice, deepened by ire, collided with the cold metal walls of the cabin. "I already said I believe ya! What, ya want me ta _pinky-swear_ on it or somethin'?" Reuben derided.

"But you don't believe me. I can tell you don't!"

Reuben whipped around. "Yeah, alright. I find some parts of it a bit suspect. There's not a whole lotta proof on yer side, man. The last I heard from ya, you were on that dune, and you were pretty steamed, like ya are now. You were down there a long time…maybe something happened, maybe ya messed with that tower thing when ya shouldn't've, or it all just got outta your control, I dunno—"

"Nothing happened! _Meega_ do nothing!" Stitch bellowed. His accumulating frustration dumped itself into the stew of rage and exhaustion frothing in his gut.

"Well I dunno that for sure, man! Ya toss your communicator, disappear for a few Seefyan hours, then yer all burnt and busted when I pick ya up. You looked like you were itchin' for a fight. And I think you mighta gotten one!" Reuben had crossed the gap between the two. He stood inches from his cousin's face.

Stitch failed to be intimidated. "What, _yuuga_ don't think I can control myself? That _meega_ only good for blowing up?" he pitched at Reuben. The walls of the orbiter shrank on him. The air was hot. "How can you not trust me? We do everything together!"

"Except this, man. You went down alone. And you were pissed off. I know you said ya weren't gonna do that kinda stuff anymore…but after everything that's happened, I just…I _don't know_ if I can trust ya when you get so angry!" The truth slapped Stitch hard.

Bitterness oozed from Stitch's mouth as he reeled from the hit. " _Oketaka_ , I didn't do anything…but what if I did? Who cares? _Meega_ handle it."

"Oh yeah? And what if you got caught? Or died? You think I'd survive long with _this_?" He waved his fractured arm at Stitch. "And what about our other cousins? What about Angel? You can't help her by going off and startin' fights to quench whatever bloodlust ya got!"

Stitch's face soured. His heart thrummed. "Since when _yuuga_ care about Angel?" he inveighed.

Shock momentarily paralyzed Reuben's face. Stitch had adopted Reuben with almost no challenge, and had fed their friendship with positivity almost constantly. Fights were rare, and had never devolved into so bitter and spiteful of a realm. Never so personal.

"H-hey now, I've always felt for my cousins," Reuben postured defensively. "I don't want you or Angel or any of the others in harm's way…we're all family, man."

"A family you and Gantu tried to break up! You say _yuuga_ can't trust me? _Meega_ say same for you! You chased us down! You captured us! You broke _ohana_!"

Shock crumbled into something far worse. Reuben's eyes narrowed. Cherry nosed twitched. Ears pinned back. Stitch knew he had gone too far, a part of him recognized that. But it was too late to back down — he had gotten to his cousin, nearing a long-buried truth he was not sure he was ready to hear aloud but had unearthed anyway.

A malignant pause hung for too long, interrupted only by the beeps and whirs of the consoles. But even they were hushed in the presence of two creatures locked in so furiously upon one another. When Reuben spoke again, his voice was a sound barely perceptible but carrying a horrendously potent venom. "…three years. It's been three damned years since I was a part of that, and you rub my nose in it now…." In half of a heartbeat, he had shoved his finger into Stitch's chest.

"Who the hell are you to judge me? What gives you the right? I heard the stories of when ya first got to Earth. You weren't any better. You were just lucky that Lilo and the rest of 'em found ya first. Without 'em, you woulda been just like me! Catchin' our cousins, workin' for someone like Hämsterviel. I did what I needed to do to survive…no one else would do it for me."

Reuben backed up one step, dropping his hands. "Sure, I ain't proud'a it. Wasn't my best moment. And certainly felt pretty awful after it was all said 'n' done." Reuben shook his head, rolling his downcast eyes. "But you...thinkin' yer so much better than me. Than all'a us. What, because yer special?" Reuben turned accusatory. A stiff finger again stormed across the no-man's-land. "You think ya _saved_ us all, isn't that right? Cracked our shells, reformed us in your image, made us more like you. Does it bother ya then? That I fight back? That I'm not just like you or the others? That ya didn't _save_ me enough, like ya did with the rest of yer precious _ohana_?" he mocked.

"You don't talk about them! You don't care about them!" Stitch was trembling, fists tightly balled. His claws burrowed into his palms.

"The hell I didn't!" Reuben shouted. "Of course I cared about 'em! You think _you're_ the only one who was hurt when our family…who suffered when he watched his home burn? Geez, cuz, ya just have this…I dunno, some kinda tremendous narcissism or somethin', wrapped up in yer own head. You think it's all about _you_. That everything that's happened only affects _you_.

"But did ya ever think someone else could be broken by what happened? That someone else could lose everything he ever loved?" Two tears spilled from the corners of Reuben's eyes. "They were our family. I loved 'em as much as you did." He blinked, and more droplets flowed, dripped down his cherry nose like rainfall. "How dare you — telling me how I felt about our family!"

"… _my_ family, not _our_ family," Stitch growled cruelly.

Reuben retracted his finger. His tone, once clear and fiery, curdled. Withdrawn, he murmured his response through salted lips. "…yeah, guess I never was part of your plan. Maybe that's why you've never really tried to _repurpose_ me — or whatever bullshit ya wanna call it — like ya did with the rest'a _our_ family. Maybe to you I wasn't worth the effort." He shuffled back another step. "That I shouldn't be… _redeemed_ ," he scorned.

He stepped back once more. "Be pissed off about what I did back then if you wanna…I don't care." His entire goldenrod body sank into the cold floor. "And I'd rather ya level with me, but if you wanna keep the truth yer own, I won't stop ya…and I sure as hell don't need ya to trust _me_ neither, if that's how ya really feel.

"But no matter what ya say, I love _our_ family. Even now, that includes you. And like it or not, at this point, I'm all ya got. So if you wanna go and _save_ everyone in this galaxy, you need me."

Stitch charged forward. Through the gap and into Reuben's puddle. He felt his own hot breath bump against the wrinkles on Reuben's troubled face. Stitch brandished enamel daggers behind his snarl. The fire in Stitch's belly fed the malice in his voice.

" _Naga_. _Meega_ _don't_ need _yuuga_."

He showed Reuben his back, patches of singed fur dark in the artificial light, and then Stitch marched out of the control room.

He had traversed most of the hallway when Reuben's sobs finally pierced the sealed doors. An hour ago, he would have sympathized. He would have returned to comfort his cousin. To share his pain, as they both had done during many a late night when their nightmares struck. When the world weighed too heavily, and the embrace of a cousin was the only relief. When _ohana_ was there.

 _Too late._

Stitch kept walking.

#


	25. Chapter 24 - A Little Fascination

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 24_

 _A Little Fascination_

 _Every once in a while, news actually does travel fast._

The galaxy is an unfathomably large entity, and ways to talk between its farthest corners had always been reserved for the most special of its denizens. Though Gantu's home base had fallen prey to a vicious force, the high-priority communications channels — one of those special ways to talk — remained intact and Federation-owned. It was all chatter at this point, with far too many people talking without usefulness or purpose. But, the practiced ear of an admiral picked through the chaff, and pieced together an almost cohesive report. What remained from the noise had Gantu's stomach pulling backflips.

Yet, he knew he needed to take action. He produced his communicator. "Te'sudu?"

"Yes, Admiral?" The response was immediate. Gantu wondered if perhaps Te'sudu had sneaked his way into the priority line and gathered the same.

"Tell that worthless XO to set a course for Seefyus. Make sure he sets it right. We need to be there as soon as possible."

"…he's listening in on this, sir."

Gantu did not miss a beat. "I stand by what I said! Get it done!"

"Alright then, Admiral. Will do."

The red disk dallied in his palm for a moment. The frustrations of command had him snapping at good officers — a flaw that Gantu knew he would need to address. His cruelty concerning Strychim was unwarranted. The green saurian unfairly bore the brunt of Gantu's slow reconciliation with the horror just unleashed on Seefyus. So Gantu would need to make it up to his XO, of that he was sure.

Stuffing the communicator in his pocket, he activated the computer console in the desk. He had explored the captain's quarters and found nothing relating to her disappearance. After his thorough investigation, he decided the space felt more comfortable than the ostentatious conference room, and so commandeered it, all the while convincing himself that Captain M'Saliti would agree to the necessity of such a choice. The stark interior of her quarters seemed incongruous with her multifaceted personality — at times she could be demure, but plain walls and rough carpeting certainly had no place in her room. Her computer, however, was a state-of-the-art model, replete with all the extra trimmings. Gantu would need to figure out which quartermaster she had bribed to receive such a fantastic machine.

On that fancy computer's holographic screen, news reports had started filing in on what was being deemed the Seefyus Tragedy, the total of which was garrulous speculation and nonsense. _And the Earthlings thought their news could be gossipy_. Gantu had rather enjoyed the relative succinctness of Earth news — galactic media brabbled far too much for his taste. In fact, he had become intimately acquainted with the local Hawaiian broadcasters — he had endured many a Kaua`i newscast as he sat alone in his hidden scout ship.

The communicator chirped. "O-okay sir," Strychim stuttered, "w-we are locked in. W-whenever you're ready."

Gantu clicked the button to respond, but held his tongue. Reason had begun to criticize his rash and uninformed decision-making. Coalition infiltrators had blasted him through his office window and commandeered some significant portion of his armada several Turan hours beforehand. And though his meeting with senior staff on the _Adesa_ had gone swimmingly, Gantu still could not fully trust the other creatures milling about the starship. Yet, he was about to fly his vessel straight into an at-best neutral planet's space to do…what? Offer planetary aid? Or do some snooping? How would the Coalition interpret the intrusion of the Federation's flagship into their recently acquired and now damaged territory?

"Belay that. Set course for the nearest adjacent star system."

"Um, okay sir…just a, uh, m-moment here… and…w-we are now locked into…the Khaestym System."

"Go ahead and initiate the hyperdrive."

"Aye sir." Gantu would not sense a change, but the ship would tear through the fabric of space-time and reach a fantastically far-off destination in a few shipboard hours. He tended not to concern himself with the deeply scientific matters. But, on occasion, when he could spare a precious moment, he would contemplate the vastness of space, and his insignificance within it as he sailed through the infinite void. Such an exercise invariably angered him in moments.

His chair — or rather, Captain M'Saliti's — was the only other ornate decoration in her quarters. The padding of the back and bottom enfolded its occupant in a cloud-like embrace. Nestling his hefty figure into the seat, Gantu leaned back to an unbelievably comfortable angle. The combination would have induced sleep in most creatures. Though he would not fall prey to the chair's wily ways, Gantu could salvage a fair bit of time for relaxation.

Yet, relaxation was fleeting. The media reports and the high-priority chatter, sketchy though it all was, flitted through his busy mind. _A fusion reactor gives out…in such spectacular fashion, too_. He had yet to memorize the specifications for the standard city-sized reactor, but Gantu did understand that such reactors were engineering marvels. They were designed to experience a hundred failures at once, and still operate safely enough to protect people. _Something seems off_ , Gantu's paranoia prodded. The circumstances of the Tragedy certainly felt dubious to him — which was why he now felt compelled to conduct his own investigation into the matter.

 _But who do I tell about our snooping?_ His meeting with senior staff earlier had solidified the ranks, but he thought traitors still slinked about in their midst.

He found his communicator again. "Te'sudu, could you join me in the captain's quarters?"

In a flash, Te'sudu strode into the spacious room. He had dressed in more formal attire, eschewing his traditional pilot's jacket for a deep black coat better suited for a gala event.

"Te'sudu, what are you wearing?"

"Ah, this? Yes, well, y'see, I have…a date tonight, sir."

Gantu was dumbfounded. "A _date_?"

Te'sudu cleared his throat. "Yes…sir. A date."

The revelation of Te'sudu's evening plans drove Gantu from his seat. He slammed his fists into the table. "Did you not hear the news? A city was annihilated by nuclear fire. They'll have riots in the streets soon. Other planets will start to panic. Pandemonium is at the galaxy's doorstep! And you're going on a date?"

"Well, yessir. You gotta enjoy the little things in life, too. Can't be serious all the time…" he trailed off as Gantu's face contorted in odd ways. The pilot deftly shifted. "So why'd you call me in here?"

Gantu fell back into his chair. "Well, when you're done with your… _date_ …we need to discuss some plans for a charitable aid mission to Seefyus. Just the two of us."

An illuminated expression glided across Te'sudu's face. "Understood, sir. I'll need about three hours then, sir."

Gantu motioned for him to leave. But as Te'sudu made his way to the door, Gantu snappily followed up. "So who's the girl?"

"Oh, no one you'd know, Admiral." With that dodge, he slithered out of Gantu's sight.

The computer screen reabsorbed Gantu's attention. "Hmph. A _date_ ," he grumbled to the floor. Despite his dedication to perennial grumpiness, a smile crept up on Gantu. _I can trust him implicitly._ More news stories flitted into view, each a more bromidic clone of the one before it. The chair leaned back, letting Gantu fall deeper into its soothing embrace.

"Where's your girl, Gantu?" The pink trunk swung through the clouded air. A nicer establishment than their usual dive, selected at the behest of Toobihya's female companion. A graceful creature, two-thirds Toobihya's height, slender, bunched up against the Admiral's corpulent belly. Her gracile sienna arms, coated in supple down feathers, wrapped around his rotund waist. Her silver beak clattered with whispered playful banter in Toobihya's ear.

"Oh, um, she, uh…."

"Isn't coming. Right?"

Gantu huffed. "No! No, of course not, she'll…be right along."

"Sure." A hoofed limb motioned for their waitress. "We're ready to order."

As Toobihya named off half the beverage menu, Gantu stared at his feet, which wiggled between the strands of the lush carpeting. He sunk back into the ludicrously expensive chair, savoring its velveteen padding on his weary back. Frosted lamps hanging above their obsidian table cast an intimate glow over the scene. In the seats across, Toobihya and his lady-friend peered at their singular guest between their treacly hushed words. Gantu fondled the armrest of the empty seat next to him.

"And for you, sir?"

"Water to start."

The waitress excused herself and left the triad to their own devices under the soft light. "Oh my, Captain Gantu, please tell me you won't stick with just water," a lilting soprano sprang from the silver beak. Her indigo irises gazed deeply into aquamarine orbs. "From what I've heard from this one over here, a celebration is in order!"

Gantu prepared to answer, and then promptly forgot her name. He stared slack-jawed, fumbling for anything to keep the conversation alive. She bated him with a patient look. "I, uh, I'm not too sure there's cause for celebration yet."

"Damn, Gantu, relax, will ya? You're a shoe-in for the spot! They'd be idiots _not_ to give you this here red uniform." The admiral pulled on the edge of his sleeve, and his companion yanked on the fabric covering his shoulder. They both laughed in an elegant harmony that was a blessing for the stuffy establishment's heavy air. Toobihya's exuberance was infectious, and soon, Gantu was smiling. When the waitress returned with the first tray of the Admiral's order, Gantu asked that she bring a repeat of it, too.

"So Captain—or soon-to-be Admiral—I've also been hearing about your time on some uncivilized planet very far away. Can you tell me what it was like? Living amongst…primitives?"

A small white straw bobbed in the girl's drink. Gantu watched her spin it around for three revolutions, passing enough time to evoke sufficient drama. "It's…not easy. Those beings on that planet were truly savages. No place for them in our galaxy."

"Ah Gantu," Toobihya hopped in, "that seems like an awfully harsh critique, even for you. I'm sure they had some saving graces, yes?"

In a memory, a young girl offered kind words. They had always been at odds, but before he left, she had found him in his ship, alone save for the Kaua'i newscast. She said sorry for all the Big Dummies and Fish-Lips to which he had been subjected — even the ones for which she was not at fault. Her sincerity was clear. And he had smiled— a rarity. "Well…." A noxious peal of laughter abruptly ruined the thought. "No."

Toobihya squeezed his lady-friend's shoulder. "Don't worry, my dear. Gantu here is merely playing the part of hardened explorer. No doubt there's _something_ pleasant that he is neglecting to mention."

The first tray of drinks disappeared. Their table was becoming increasingly louder with each emptied glass. Toobihya's companion waited for their group to down half of the next tray before beginning her interrogation anew. "So on this planet, Captain, you probably saw all types of strange organisms, besides these, ehm—the taller bare-skinned ones you mentioned—"

"Humans?" Gantu was surprised that she had been so well-acquainted with the particulars of his time on Earth. Even though the files of his sojourn had made their rounds, he did not suspect such familiarity from a layperson. He wondered how much information Toobihya had sweetly poured into her ear over the past few nights.

"Yes! Them. Besides them, what else did you find on that world?"

"Oh, I don't believe I could name them all. There were all kinds, ones that flew, swam, ran on land—"

"Okay then, how about more alien ones?"

"Um…well from, uh, my perspective, guess they were all alien."

Her laugh was a strange little warble that Gantu found incredibly alluring. "No, Captain, I mean another alien for that world—like yourself. I want to hear about them!"

A graveness hardened Gantu's spirit. He leered at indigo irises. "No, not _them_ —"

"Come off it, Gantu!" Toobihya tried to defuse. Instead, Gantu steamed. Toobihya turned to his companion and admonished her. "My dear, it is best not to prod him on this point. He becomes quite defensive about the Experiments."

" _The Abominations_ ," Gantu growled. She jumped in her seat, bumping the table with one of her long legs.

"I didn't mean to offend, Captain," she hurriedly apologized. "I only meant to…." Her eyes closed, shuttering away those indigo irises, and she hummed. "Mm…you know, I remember exactly where I was the day the Experiment was brought in for that trial." Eyes flew open excitedly. "I was affixed to my screen. It was mostly fear that kept me there—I was so worried, I knew the danger something like that Experiment could pose. But there was another, smaller part of me that was intrigued by it. Fascinated, I would go so far as to say. Creating life on our own—so successfully, and so _publicly_ — and the ways that creature flaunted authority, so vibrantly and outlandishly. Oh, I was enthralled, Captain! So I only meant to learn more about this being that has…captivated me so completely."

"Believe me, after all the time I've had to learn about it." He swirled a tiny crimson straw around in his next drink. "There's _nothing_ you'd want to know."

"Maybe so, Captain. Yet this social…taboo, at even mentioning the Experiments, the impropriety of it in a place like this, it's…exhilarating." She closed her eyes and fanned a gracile arm above her head. Her companions looked on, stunned to silent gawking. She breathed deeply. "Don't you think so, Captain?"

"Um…."

She laughed. Gantu slumped further into the chair. "There is a danger, Captain, I do not ignore that." Her eyes laboriously drew open, and indigo irises swam freely before finding Gantu. "Fear, though, is useless without a little fascination."

Mercifully, the waitress returned to take away the spent glasses, with the promise of fresh ones arriving soon. Gantu took the reprieve to regain composure. Her eyes unrelentingly pursued him as he searched for anything else in the restaurant to stare at except her. "The, uh, taboo," Gantu launched clumsily, "is there because it _is_ dangerous. You know there're more of them out there. Many more. They are tough, scarily so. A lot of power to give to a being, to be sure. But what they _represent_ —that is what makes them dangerous."

"Hmm…what they represent…how dangerous indeed. An argument used before, by the Federation of course. And, by another organization of, shall we say, rapidly rising clout."

Gantu's authoritative tone soured. "Do _not_ compare me to the Coali—"

"Alright!" Toobihya threw his arms into the air. "Enough of this discourse! We have another whole tray coming our way, and there's no way we'll get through it if we keep talking like this. My dear, let's save all this for another day, okay?"

Gantu sat still as she turned to him and plainly winked. "Absolutely."

"Stupendous! Now, let's have some fun and some _actual_ small talk—oh but wait! I almost forgot…the toast!"

Gantu, still cooling off, wrinkled his brow. "The toast?"

"Yes!" Toobihya flew from his seat, and precariously balanced himself using the table. His thick pink skin glowed in the soft light. "To Gantu—the future Admiral that we will need for these—dangerous and fascinating times!"

"To Admiral Gantu!" she warbled.

Gantu raised his glass. The triad of liquids sloshed high above the obsidian table.

"Three is such a strange number," she blurted out.

"Well," Toobihya started as he returned to his seat, "if Gantu had found a girl…." Gantu listened to them laugh, then cheer as the next round was delivered by a melancholically haggard waitress. He was going to tell Toobihya, but the several more glasses he drained helped him forget.

But as he sat in the quiet office, the chair creaking as he returned to a straighter posture, Gantu remembered. "I did find her," he murmured, frowning at the computer screen.

Suddenly, curiosity poked its way into his pensiveness. In a flash, it had him vacate the desk and hurry out into the hallway. The shipboard club was several decks down from his quarters. "The little things in life, eh?" he told himself as he stepped into the ship's lift. "We'll see about that."

#


	26. Chapter 25 - The People Here Before

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 25_

 _The People Here Before_

"All crew accounted for, Praetor," the officer reported in a tinny monotone. He was young, fresh out of training, and still stood a head taller than Horush Ga'lean. In his rare downtime, the Praetor would toss about on his mattress as he speculated on the reasons that Skallyraathi grew so tall. Despite some remarkably strenuous extranet research, he had discovered scant data on their species. And if the Chancellor had known, then he had deftly avoided Ga'lean's prying questions with a politician's grace.

"Very good, Captain. Begin final preparation procedures. I want to be out of dry dock as soon as possible." With a salute, he sent the juvenile captain to accomplish his lengthy list of pre-launch tasks. The three thousand man complement of the _Chantana_ each had their own duties to perform, of course, including the Praetor.

Before he returned to his own collection of unfinished business, he paused to examine the massive viewport that spanned the front wall of the bridge. Leehrra IV marched on in its sempiternal orbit around its parent star. Since Ga'lean was raised in a far-off star system, he had been forced to teach himself the planet's past using as many resources as he could scrounge together. He beamed when he thought on his autodidactic efforts, a constant source of pleasurable retribution to be exacted upon unbelieving Coalition higher-ups who had constantly challenged his knowledge of their own history. The orb engulfing the view screen reminded him of a scene from _The Birth of the Coalition_ , a purportedly historical documentary that shined as a propaganda piece.

 _The other three planets in the system danced too closely to their bright companion to harbor life. Leehrra IV and its sapient species would have met the same lethal fate were it not for an enterprising corporation's century-long terraforming efforts and orbital correction to safeguard incredibly rare resources. Once the planet was blessed with the bountiful oceans and the temperate climate of successful ecopoesis, it was marred by blood and violence as the corporation battled to keep its newest asset from the control of its native inhabitants. Records from the war are spotty — the natives' abhorrence for the corporation and its technology led to the destruction of many historical archives after they secured their victory through an expensive attritional affair._

 _Despite the pressures of the newly-minted technophobic society that isolated itself from the galaxy, some discovered the benefits of the remnant tech left behind by the fleeing company. Appropriating what they saw as gifts, in the span of only a few cycles the minority seized control of the planet in a far from bloodless campaign, and led it through an incredible industrial expansion, indoctrinating many vocal opponents along the way. Leehrra IV would remain an unrivaled magnet of technological innovation and progress for decades that would be exploited by the galactic powers-that-be …yet the seeds of discord had lain ever dormant, waiting for a Great Shock to loosen the soil so that they may sprout…._

Ga'lean marveled at the cerulean jewel spinning innocuously in its place. _An idyll awash in blood,_ he sighed. Reluctantly, the Praetor broke his gaze from the screen and returned to his duties. His footsteps echoed pointedly throughout the pharaonic bridge, joining the chorus of the officers dictating to subordinates and the countless workers clacking away at the computer consoles that lined the outer rim. The bridge's smooth walls arced upward and reached their zenith many feet over the Praetor's head in uncharacteristically gaudy opulence. Personally, he had learned to accept most of the austere elements the designers of the massive vessel had incorporated, although Ga'lean did not particularly care for the featureless and uniform gray that coated every surface. He would never speak his concern aloud, but he would on occasion quietly pine for a splash of vibrant crimson to shatter the monotony.

Another young officer, this one a lieutenant, stopped Ga'lean at the weighty metal door leading out of the domed bridge. A salute served as prelude to his important announcement. "Praetor, there's…something in the primary cargo bay that you need to see."

"Oh, splendid," he responded laconically. _More damned surprises_ , he intruded on his own peaceful complexion. One of the Chancellor's aides had followed-up with the pertinent details of the pre-launch check, more mundane tasks and protocols. No mention had been made of a secret package. Or anything of real importance. The Chancellor was wise, and would not have allocated a resource like the Praetor — the head of the Coalition's Tactical Operations division — to ship-preparation duty if it were not vital to the Coalition. Yet, the dearth of information for what he assumed to be his true purpose aboard the _Chantana_ frustrated him to no end. He swiped at the door panel and let himself out into the main corridor.

The ship's major artery was bustling with crew members set to task. Massive doorways incised into the gray walls opened onto certain pre-launch activities undertaken by Skallyraathi. As Ga'lean traversed the length and glanced through portals, he spotted four soldiers hefting a quantum torpedo, a dyad altering code for the laser cannons' firing solution calculator and bickering on calibrations, and a hundred more queuing for lunch in a surprisingly spacious mess hall. Most of the soldiers on this ship had been rolled into TacOps against Ga'lean's repeated objections. To him, they did not uphold the integrity of the organization for which he fought so vehemently. But the Chancellor said he saw them for their numerical value as much as their strategic value. _I do as the Chancellor bids_ , Ga'lean had acquiesced.

There were many such choices of the Chancellor's that confounded Ga'lean. Ever since he had signed on, the Praetor had struggled to understand the nuances of Coalition politics. Its players and endgames changed as often as a young eaglet molted. Ga'lean had been trained to operate linearly, to think of one foot in front of the other, the consummate soldier. It was not that he could not reason, or employ strategy; but, too many thoughts like that would result in one's own death — or the death of a comrade — on the battlefield.

The Praetor had turned the Chancellery into a battlefield before — many times, in fact, though his weapons had always been words. On one such instance, Ga'lean, a relatively new appointee to his position, had just returned from a rather bloody mission to pacify a rogue Coalition vessel. The captain had been compromised, spouting insanity about experiments going wrong and some eternal damnation or other, Ga'lean couldn't recall specifics. The wetwork was simple enough. That captain had converted a few die-hards, but most of the rest of the crew had dropped their weapons once the captain's head had been removed. Still, a traitor is a traitor, as Ga'lean saw it. Venting the ship's atmosphere had been a touch too cruel, perhaps, but a befitting end to an entire crew too timid to stand firm for their Coalition.

In the moments before Ga'lean had vaporized the captain's brain, however, the creature had managed a final line of gibberish. Nonsense that the Praetor remembered as being unbearably humorous, which he then had relayed in jest to the Chancellor. The laugh waiting in his belly had frozen into pure shock as the Chancellor had agreed with the captain's final words.

"He was not far off the mark, Praetor."

Shock sculpted itself into anxiety. The Praetor was still a neophyte, uninitiated into the Coalition's deeper tenets. He had gathered enough intelligence from the stumping speeches, extranet releases and analyses from pundits, and the books authored in the Chancellor's name. He had seen, heard, and read about the Coalition's constantly wavering position on technology. From staunch Luddite to loving technophile, the Coalition's rank and file composed a spectrum of opinion. Tellingly, the Chancellor had remained mute on the subject. To now hear him practically ordain a crazy captain's rantings as canon was too much for Ga'lean.

"So you think...is technology really…evil, Chancellor?" The distressed Praetor paced along the sides of the Chancellery's reception room carpet, invariably enamored with the swirling pattern and hoping it would relax him. It failed. "I guess…we use it every day. I used it to eliminate a crew of traitors! I just…don't really understand how you could take that position."

The Chancellor was staring out the massive view screen behind his desk. Cerulean and teal foliage brushed against the camera lens, which was then magnified by the screen's size to show the thousands of stomata on the underside of the leaves. "Come here, Praetor. Come look at this splendor."

Ga'lean grew more concerned as his question stayed unanswered. Cautiously, he padded along a seam of the carpet and joined his commander. The Praetor coughed a few small and hoarse barks, an artifact of lungs adjusting to air with a discernible level of humidity. The stark white cuirass with the strange crimson emblem itched as it trapped the moisture of the Leehrran atmosphere. He shoved talons through burnt umber plumage to unceremoniously scratch. "Yes, Chancellor, it is…nice."

"Nice?" the hood rasped before an eerie chuckle. "The beauty—the preciousness—of life, laid out for you in glorious detail, and all you can muster is _nice_. Tell me, Praetor, on your own home world, did you ever stop and really see the world around you?"

The Praetor tried to shield his downcast eyes from the Chancellor. An artifact of pride. "Wasn't really one for nature, Chancellor."

"Hmph, well then, did you at least wonder where it came from? How life originated, and flourished, on your planet?"

Ga'lean delicately positioned his talons on the screen, lukewarm to the touch. For a moment, he was traipsing again through the barbed reeds that surrounded fetid ponds in his home world's marshlands. Moss mats blanketed the surface, but colors swirled in undertows. His father urged him along. As the elder waited for his son, he stopped to pick at a reed, tearing away the covering to expose seeds that fluttered away in a humid breeze. Still a little bit behind, Ga'lean scrambled through the brush, peering over tall grasses to find the other set of burnt umber plumage. "On occasion, I suppose I did."

The Chancellor gestured widely along the length of the screen. "Good! I'm glad to hear that. We should know where we come from. It helps us better understand where to go. For the people on your home world, Praetor, omnipresent life is all they've ever known. They cannot comprehend a world devoid of animals, plants, water, the essentials that bring life into existence and then to fruition. But Leehrra…this planet received a gift. Paid out over a century. A doomed world received the blessings of life." The Chancellor turned his cloaked figure toward Ga'lean. The Praetor was unable to discern an expression, but the black oval felt heavy to the eyes. "Then they who gave life sought their recourse."

Ga'lean's superior hopped back in the lithe way he could move — never touching the ground, always above it. "They—the Company—needed life to sustain their own operations, to fulfill their own plan. The People Here Before, who had desperately clung to their facsimile of life, they were expendable. The Company gave this world life, _real_ life as they saw it, and then threatened to take it all away from the beings who desired it most. And they tried…the Company tried to secure their reign, and it failed. It failed at a spectacular cost. But this world learned some harsh lessons as the threshers crushed villages and the lasers set it all ablaze…technology itself, Praetor, is not evil. The beings who wield it…." The Chancellor hovered back over to his desk.

Ga'lean, in a shock to himself, made sense of it pretty quickly, or so he thought. He came around the desk and stared squarely into the Chancellor's hood. "So when you talk about technology. Or the Great Shock. Or the Council. It's not _what_ they have, insomuch as _how_ they choose to implement it?"

"Something to that effect, yes."

"And so when the Coalition uses technology, it's different because…."

The Chancellor didn't waste a breath. "We are the responsible wielders of technology. We recognize that _through_ technology, we achieve power. Power that should be shared. Power that the Federation would keep to itself."

The Praetor had memorized most of the lines recycled in hundreds of stumping speeches delivered throughout the galaxy. "And use to consolidate. And to enrich itself," he rattled off from rote.

"Precisely."

His beak clacked as Ga'lean shook his head. "Sure, I see that about the Federation. But…the planets they're supposed to serve. With this mad scramble for power, what happens to them?"

The Chancellor took his seat and fiddled with a drawer. A small sigh from the hood. "They fall victim to change. The inexorable march of technological progress — some Federation fool coined that line. But that force is real. It's impersonal, and certainly beyond the control of any one planet and its people.

"But power through technology, Praetor, it changes these planets. Either from the inside out, as its people glean the knowledge and exploit it for their own sakes, often leading them to their own demise. Or from the outside in, as a people frightened by such power consign themselves to a pact with an organization that doesn't care for them, only interested in enriching itself off their backs. The force, the _technological progress_ , it is very real, and has very real consequences. But it is not truly _what_ that power is that presents the problem. _How_ they implement that force, Praetor… _that_ is what should concern you and the rest of this galaxy."

Ga'lean stepped back from the desk and stared at the carpet, following the swirling eddies of color. His father urged him to catch up. The seeds drifted by lazily, then splashed down one at a time in the brackish water, soon to latch onto an underwater pebbled and extend its roots, one day to sprout seeds of their own. "Then...could the Federation ever abjure their old ways? Do better and let the planets survive on their own? Understand how _we_ see it all?"

The Chancellor chuckled. "Now those, Praetor, are questions I wish I could answer."

Ga'lean was fairly confident he had lost the battle that day, though he found he was pleased to have engaged in the first place. The Chancellor's challenges swirled in his mind as the Praetor plodded down the boring gray hallways. The cargo bay was situated at the aft of the ship, several decks down from the bridge. After a few flights of stairs, Ga'lean entered the massive rectangular room. Awe struck him every time he went into the bay. _Chantana_ 's formidable crew consumed an incredible amount of supplies, the majority of which was stored in thousands upon thousands of crates. Together, they formed cliffs of corrugated metal and narrow valleys of empty space, wide enough for a Skallyraathi to just barely squeeze their way through. Ga'lean would sometimes perambulate the typically unmanned aisles, the ghostly emptiness whisking him away from the drudgery of his command. Almost as soothing as the ornate carpet adorning the Chancellery's reception room.

But this time, Ga'lean had a specific purpose. He strode at a brisk clip to the rear of the bay, where the cargo reception area lay. A circle that was four fully-grown Skallyraathi in diameter was cut into the hull of the ship, the whole of which shimmered with a diaphanous curtain of energy. Ga'lean knew the force field would prevent any air leakage or other pressure-related issues, but he still reflexively clenched his toes, talons working to dig a foothold into the metal floor, as he neared the gap.

Several yards from the entry circle, a blocky vehicle rested on the deck. While he could stomach most of the design choices of the Coalition, he downright hated the outer hulls of their ships. During an artistic expression session at primary school as an eaglet, he had taken a chisel to an oblong hunk of porous marble indigenous to his swampy world. He hammered and bashed the soft stone, shaping it in the image of his father. His image must have been fundamentally flawed. But, the subsequent horror of harsh edges and ragged chunks of rock he had constructed that day would be lauded as fine art compared to the craft before him.

As he approached, the side hatch swung open and two Skallyraathi stepped out of the dropship. Though they stoically hid it, their exhaustion from a lengthy bout of superluminal travel was apparent in their mild slouch, the dragging of their feet along the metallic floor, and the indolent sway of the box they carried between them. Draped with a plain sheet, the mysterious package was guided by the grip each Skallyraath maintained on a sturdy handle. Every so often, the box would undergo a lateral movement, and the soldiers would fight to keep the box on its proper trajectory. Whatever was inside seemed determined to get out.

He motioned for the soldiers' attentions, and they wearily diverted the box to their superior. They plunked it down two paces in front of him, and after a few more shaking episodes, the box sat calmly. A footstep, and then another, and the Praetor was above the box. It seemed small from his height, something unassuming, only to be overlooked. Ga'lean knew better than to make such a mistake.

He warily pulled back an edge of the sheet and peered at what lay beneath. A few heartbeats passed. Then, a wide grin erupted. _This is why the Chancellor sent me here_. He laughed. The Skallyraathi exchanged odd shakes of their heads — faces obscured, they could not show an expression indicative of their concern for their commander's outburst. Ga'lean paid no mind. _How could I have ever doubted him?_

"What should we do with it, sir?" one of the carriers inquired.

Ga'lean straightened with an undiminished grin. "Take it to the brig. The most secured cell, with extra shielding. But first, let me…." Ga'lean gleefully produced a multi-function pocket FTL communicator that he stowed in his bandolier. Peeling back the sheet again, he snapped a photograph with the onboard camera before waving passage.

As the Skallyraathi carted away their haul, Ga'lean studied the image glowing on his device. _I wouldn't have expected it to be so…animated_. A minute's pause, alone in the expanse, and then he exited the bay. He put out a direct call to the bridge staff. "Gentlemen, prepare my ready room."

 _How could I have ever doubted him indeed?_

 _#_


	27. Chapter 26 - Cheap Plastic

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 26_

 _Cheap Plastic_

"Superluminal travel in progress."

The console's voice chimed with slightly cheery indifference as Cobra reclined into his pilot's seat. He likened the ship's onboard computer to the disembodied speakers at one of the massive chain grocery stores he hated. The impersonal tone, jaunty but uncaring as it drove you to the next bargain. It's why he so thoroughly enjoyed Hasagawa's shop secreted away on that little island.

An island that was now very distant to him.

The ship had been right where the extraterrestrial scientist usually kept it. When the existence of the ship was first made know, the feds had wanted the vessel all to themselves, no doubt to subject it to a battery of tests and reverse-engineering protocols. And technically, Cobra was their agent. So, the portly creature would blink his four eyes and stumble his way through some ham-fisted lie as to his ship's whereabouts whenever Cobra questioned him. And that would comprise the report Cobra filed to his superiors. _Small wonder they slashed my budget._

Cobra had tossed away the sad branches and fronds that ostensibly hid the ship from the bevy of satellites spying overhead. The scientist had mentioned time and again that building a proper cloaking device was "mere child's play — will be done in no time!" usually said before he lumbered on to the next luau. Regardless of the assistance of such a device, Cobra believed, spotting the ship would still be child's play. The garish red paint, running along a fat fuselage and long sloping wings, did not blend into the verdant surroundings.

Fortunately, despite its flamboyant appearance, the ship was stocked for war. Cobra had taken inventory of the weapons systems as the vessel wheezed up through the stratosphere — the engines had not been turned over in a very long time. A few lessons from Jookiba had provided the agent with sufficient wherewithal to enter into Low Earth Orbit. The computer was kind enough to assume control from that point onward. All Cobra had to do was scream, "Follow that ship!" and the pursuit was on.

Against the vastness of space, the dropship had been nothing more than a metallic speck, a stain on the pure and uniform emptiness. Residuals of Earth's albedo blotted out the stars, and the lunar body was currently situated just slightly behind its mother. It was a shocking emptiness that had the stoic Cobra gasp ever so gently. The three shrill beeps and the crimson targeting reticle overlaying the view screen, however, brought him back from his glimpse of an odd nirvana.

He had certainly expected the vessel to be long gone, to have taken its catch back to whatever den in which it resided. Yet for a reason totally lost to the human, the enemy ship was hanging around the planet's edge. And aboard that ship was the last Earthly remnant of that massive family, his last link to all of them. He hoped that more of them were fine, but this one came with certainty. The lightning bolt had been no accident. A flare, a cry for help. Cobra would answer that call.

Jookiba's ship, for all of its whining through Earth's atmosphere, had moved like a shark through the inky waters of space. Aerodynamics weren't terribly consequential on the edge of his home world's atmosphere, but something visceral in Cobra's gut told him his commandeered ship was better equipped to challenge the void than the blocky and ugly dropship trying to get away. In the space of a few thousand miles — distances get tricky to comprehend when compared to infinity — Cobra had very nearly overtaken the enemy craft. The targeting reticle glowed, and Cobra could sense the aching in the weapons launch button, not to outright obliterate the ship, but disable it severely enough to allow Cobra to commence his rescue. He gave the button its release.

Bolts of incredible quanta of energy sliced through the darkness. Yellow flares to answer the call. And they had been washed away in a colorful cavalcade of space-time ripples.

"Damn it!" he had sworn at the fabric knitting itself back together. That hyperdrive, the device touted by every alien species that ever saw fit to grace Earth with their presences, confounded Cobra. The mechanics of it had sailed far over his head. That had been the case for just about every other human being, too. Long ago, the head of an alien organization of planets had bestowed upon humanity the gift of the hyperdrive. Cobra had stood guard as the tall and slender azure form had given a group of eggheads the schematics. Though, she had failed to provide them a means to understand these drawings. Almost none of it had made sense to even the brightest minds, a fact she had known well before arriving on the planet. It had not been a gift, but rather a puzzle, one designed to prevent humanity's ascent to the stars until they appreciated the power they would wield. It was at that moment when he decided he liked that alien.

Cobra had recalled one piece of Jookiba's advice germane to his plight. A fugitive for most of his career, the scientist had learned the secrets employed by governing bodies and bounty hunters and their ilk. The most exploited, he explained, was the hyperdrive. He conveyed that the system was "always messy" and "was leaving behind too many clues" for a tracker to follow. Cobra had paid little attention at the time, but once the enemy dropship surfed away on rainbow hyperspace waves, the thought had come rolling back.

The computer had known what he needed before he did. It ran calculations and drew out likely trajectories based on the patterns of the ripples. _Quite impressive, really_ , Cobra noted. He would in short order become the first human — well, aside from one little girl that he knew of — to engage in superluminal travel. It was a distinction, he thought, he would probably come to regret.

The cockpit had darkened considerably, its view screens shutting off the universe outside. Cobra heard from secondhand sources that looking outward and seeing the stars streak by would be incredible. A masterpiece only seen in science fiction. Sadly, Jookiba had ruined that for him. "Artificial creation of screens and images. Real hyperdrive is making everything go dark — light cannot be keeping pace." The scientist had purloined Cobra's sense of awe, frustrating now that he found himself in an appropriate situation to unleash said awe.

So he brooded in silence — punctuated by the occasional phrase blatting perkily from the console — as his ship rapturously pursued its quarry. The first real quiet he was able to embrace since this debacle began. It would be good, Cobra concluded, to use the time to reflect, and develop his strategy to rescue the creature he knew to be imprisoned on that dropship.

Yet, Cobra was unsure where to even begin. He stared at the busted flip-flop, delicately perched atop the pilot's console. Threads from the strap — Cobra had believed it to be made of leather at first but now realized its truer composition of cheaply extruded plastic polymer — dangled limply in front of the central console, which tracked the ship's progress on a multi-star-system scale. Little dots chasing, pulling away, closing in, passing by drawings of planets with names scrawled in alien tongues. He watched intently this game the dots were playing, and was quickly mesmerized.

The bolt of lightning zipped by overhead. Cobra, seated comfortably at the café with a cold coffee concoction encased in a meaty palm, saw the sky crackle with electricity. The cloudless day made it easy to figure out the source. He looked toward the distance where the lighthouse stood on the precipice and, seeing no beam to guide ships to shore, tossed spare change onto the table and left.

He no longer took his coffee drinks in the usual chinaware or glass. Too many times, something had arisen without a moment's notice, forcing him to fumble through apologies as he borrowed the café's supply of serving glasses. The plastic cup squeaked as he pinched it, and he slurped away through a wide straw as he jogged to the house on the hill.

The dreaded budget review was fast approaching, and Cobra did not have much to present. The blue one's suggestion had, of course, worked perfectly. Those back at Langley outright feared the Experiments. Plainly evident in the hushed boardroom to which Cobra made his annual pilgrimage. Skittish junior directors — or the ambitious ones gunning for the higher-up jobs soon to be vacated during changing political tides — responded to Cobra's egregiously aggrandized tale of doom and gloom with barely disguised mortal terror. It took every ounce of strength he had to not crack a smile whenever he talked of the blue one's rampaging desire to eat — what, exactly, he ate was left to the committee's overactive imaginations.

Their fear was a little less obvious, however, in the paltry sum Cobra was given to maintain his "monitoring systems," impressive hunks of useless plastic the scientist had whipped up one boring afternoon. The money really ended up supporting Cobra and a small network of townspeople who all kept tabs on the hundreds of aliens freely wandering around Kaua`i. But, Jookiba's monitoring systems that did no such thing would likely placate the mainland bureaucrats enough in order to refund his program.

Yet the lie he annually fed to his superiors was starting to generate unexpected ancillary effects. The one that truly worried Cobra was that the ` _ohana_ may have been taking to heart Cobra's prevarications. He knew the Experiments well, having watched them for several years now. He knew threats were minimal; however, some of them seemed to be adopting at least parts of the fake personae Cobra was selling to the mainland. Two-Two-One was of special concern. Recently, Cobra's network had reported that the Experiment had been shirking his duties at the lighthouse, zipping off to a nondescript location in the island interior for some unknown reason. Until this morning, Cobra had yet to catch the Experiment in the act.

The agent, surprisingly winded after hiking up most of the hill, took the mangy dirt path several hundred yards away from the house. A few of the creatures were horsing around in the front yard — Cobra successfully avoided them, even as his drink protested with an inordinately loud squeak as he juggled it between hands. The fewer who knew of his new covert mission, the better. He shoved away verdant fronds that hung over the path, keeping his body low to the ground. Snaps of electrical arcs sounded up ahead. Soon, the unmistakable whiffs of ozone passed by Cobra's nose.

Cobra knew what lay at the end of the pathway. The scientist often trundled out here in the dead of night, thinking himself free from prying eyes — and no doubt eager to wrap up projects of questionable merit left behind in its bay. There was little space around the house now that the _`ohana_ had filled up just about every available square foot. Certainly not enough for the vessel to rest unperturbed.

The sun rested high above as Cobra approached the clearing that housed Jookiba's ship. From the path, the ostentatious paintjob did its best to blend into the flowering plants that poked up through swaying bluegrass. Shuffling through the blades was a lone Experiment, who uttered gargling noises of frustration as he zipped up from the ground to the ship's nose, and then wing to wing, and back down into the sea of grass. Cobra knelt by a rotted stump and observed Two-Two-One repeat the pattern a dozen times in rapid succession.

Cobra had given himself an imperative to remain silent as he watched. And he had accomplished that feat. His drink, on the other hand, had other plans. Perhaps it was an instinctual response on the part of Cobra. The coffee drink had been melting into a sludge, drawing water from the humid island air and condensing it on the sides. The plastic had become slippery with no trouble at all. His hand had eased up a mere fraction, but it was enough for the drink to tumble from his grasp. Without thinking, his other hand snagged it midair and squeezed the cheap plastic.

The cup's screech drew Two-Two-One to within an inch of Cobra's nose. Every hair on the agent's body stood on end, reaching toward the massive static charge that was the Experiment. Yet, as Cobra examined Two-Two-One from this close distance, he found the Experiment did not appear angry at the disturbance. Rather, there was an air of almost electric elation. With rapid-fire jolts fired from his fingers, Two-Two-One prodded Cobra to his feet and chased him into the clearing.

When Two-Two-One deemed Cobra's location sufficient, the little arcs of lightning zapping the agent's backside ceased. The Experiment rocketed past, his ethereal form phasing through the engine turbines buried deeply in the manifolds affixed to the wings. A warmth began to overtake the air, a heat in motion that circled round the craft. Cobra heard the faintest of whines as the turbines started to spin up. And he suddenly knew what Two-Two-One was after.

"No, wait!" he pleaded with the creature, who was too lost in excitement to listen. The engines grew louder, the whine became a snarl. "I understand, but it's not—it's not _you_!"

Somehow, Cobra's baritone carried over the heated engines. Two-Two-One solidified at Cobra's feet. The air was cooling rapidly, energy whisked away by the sad eyes now staring up at the hulking agent. The ubiquitous language barrier was rearing its ugly head as Two-Two-One voiced his concerns in quick-fire Tantalog. Cobra had never quite wrapped his head around the vocabulary, but the stutters and squeals laid plain the fact that something was bothering Two-Two-One — and Cobra had a good guess as to what that was.

"There's no need for you to start up those engines," Cobra offered gently as he went to one knee. The Experiment was not dissuaded, and Cobra could feel the strain in Two-Two-One's body as he yearned to return to the ship. And to prod Cobra, the Experiment's newly conscripted pilot, into the craft. "You don't need to leave your family. None of you are bad. It's just what I…what we need to tell my superiors. All those people on the mainland, they want to take you away. We can't let that happen. But it's not really you that's the problem…trust me on this."

Cobra's pleas seemed to sink in, and the tense body relaxed under Cobra's grasp. As Two-Two-One wound down, the static charge dampening, Cobra realized how sensitive these supposed monsters truly were. It was something he had of course known for a long time now. Years of working alongside them had made that evident. Yet, those sad eyes — which were enlivening as the Experiment began to comprehend Cobra's statement — reified the emotional core that attracted these Experiments to one another. To their _'ohana_. Despite their creators' constant insistence of his evil plot for each and every one of his Experiments, a part of them had been designed to connect, beyond programming. And Cobra could not help but connect with them, too.

A loud bang, and Cobra jumped. The engines had ground to a halt. Two-Two-One looked on in disinterest, his body crackling as little arcs tried to leap through thick and humid air, only to fall back to their source. The agent had been distracted by thought, and had failed to take notice of an increasingly antsy Two-Two-One, who had begun spitting out more indecipherable Tantalog. Cobra managed a smile — a weak one with the corners barely turned up, properly austere for a government agent — and adjusted his sunglasses, which had been sliding down the bridge of his nose.

"Alright then, let's go. And no more talk of leaving, agreed?"

Cobra could only catch the according " _Ih!_ " before the Experiment took flight on electric wings, leaving behind only haughty chuckles as he zipped over the lush jungle canopy. With a laugh of his own, Cobra studied Jookiba's ship one more time. It sat as it had for at least a year now, quietly hiding in this clearing, ducking beneath some sparse fronds and branches. The few minutes of turnover would probably be healthy for the engines, even if the ship would most likely never leave the Earth again.

With a noisy slurp, Cobra drained his now coffee slush. The cup sans drink felt almost impossibly light, and sunshine was able to pierce the container and illuminate its innards. Cobra could see that desperate grab from before had created a spider's web of creases that ran around the cylindrical container. _Cheap plastic_. The straw rattled around the inside of the cup as Cobra strode back onto the dirt path. Ahead, he could just make out the snaps of lightning arcs from somewhere near the house.

The shrill beeps from the central console brought Cobra back to the ship's cockpit. He brushed aside the sandal strap's threads and peered into the screen. The dots would soon overlap.

"Warning," came the even-keeled grocery-store tone from the console's speaker. "Superluminal travel to conclude momentarily. Please stand by."

Cobra knew from Jookiba that he would feel nothing as the ship exited hyperspace. Even so, the agent from Earth gripped tightly the armrests on the pilot's chair. Though the rest of the seat was coated in a velveteen fabric, the armrests were constructed of some strange polymer. They protested from Cobra's impressively strong squeezing, and he could almost hear them buckling. "Cheap plastic," he muttered as the view screens came back to life with breathtaking resplendence.

The console spoke again. "Travel complete. Now entering the Leehrra System."


	28. Chapter 27 - Pariah

_Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 27_

 _Pariah_

Stitch had been perched in the pilot's chair of the dropship for a while — how long precisely, he could not say. Multiple times, he had started the launch sequence, committed to escaping his nightmare, and multiple times, the shuttle had failed to abandon the bay. He was fuming about Reuben, or in more exact terms, Reuben's accuracy. Reuben had landed on Earth without a Lilo — an ` _ohana_ — to watch over him and to guide him. _A victim of misfortune_. Stitch had been lucky to find his family when he did, a fortuitous turn of events that he only now realized he had taken for granted. As the new crater on Seefyus turned past their orbiter, Stitch understood. _He is all I have. I do need him._ A soft sigh of relief—admitting that to himself had been an arduous task. However, reciting it aloud to Reuben would require much more reflection and preparation.

To help him relax and discover the right words, he had flipped on the galactic extranet radio. Tens of thousands of stations streamed live content over FTL channels. It blanketed the farthest corners of the galaxy with examples from hundreds of genres and hundreds more subsets. "And still nothing to listen to…" he disappointedly chortled. He much preferred his vinyl record collection stowed next to his bed, but like everything else, the fire had not spared it.

A station transmitting from a planet with a name Stitch would not try to pronounce was broadcasting a song that bore an uncanny resemblance to one of his favorite LPs from the Sixties. He hummed along to the easygoing tune. A faint warmth draped his body as the Kaua`i beach formed around him. Tepid shallow waters tickled the soles of his feet. The salted air carried the jubilation of cheerful beachgoers praising the beauty of the day.

Beside him sat Angel. She reclined, basking in the noonday sun. Small gusts off the ocean fluttered her supple pink fur in waves reminiscent of fields of Kaua`i bluegrass. Eyes batted coquettishly as she observed the light Pacific surf.

The zephyr blessing the beach with cool air did little to calm his nerves. She had not called him _boojiboo_ for several weeks, though it had taken him almost as long to notice. She stared off at distant whitecaps, her unwavering commitment to avoid his face declining Stitch the chance for redemption. From somewhere deep within, he summoned some courage and reached a tentative hand out, capturing hers in a solicitous yet loose grip.

She dreamily angled her head toward the object of her aversion. Stitch saw his form reflected in her wistful eyes. He prepared himself for a volley of invectives, an angry outburst, or even a physical altercation. Instead, a tiny smile of affection belatedly requited turned up the corners of her mouth.

She drew in a deep breath of the humid and salty air. Words began to take shape on the tip of her tongue. Stitch's nervousness evaporated in the breeze. She screeched.

Stitch jolted, the alarm jarring him back to reality. The radio emitted harsh screams in lieu of music. As he went to cover his sensitive ears, the flat tones of a much softer news reporter thankfully replaced the noise. Miffed, he cranked up the volume to hear the ado.

 _We now go live to the Chancellery on Leehrra._

A brief pause, then a raspy and hoarse voice began to speak.

 _Citizens of the galaxy. With deepest melancholy, I must confirm the rumors that have been circulating regarding the tragedy that has befallen the strong and noble people of the planet Seefyus. The obliteration of their city of Pthlonia, and the loss of millions of innocent lives, weighs heavily on my heart. The city and her people were an irreplaceable gem for a world rising again toward greatness._

At first, it was difficult to listen to the sound of this orator. But, as words flowed into sentences, the voice adopted an eerily pleasant tone, a harsh intoxicant that inexplicably sweetened with time.

 _Once we learned of the destruction of the city, I as Chancellor ordered a rapid-response team to investigate the aftermath. Their findings, derived from the evidence collected, concluded that the Seefyus Tragedy was not an accident, but instead a deliberate and malicious attack against a protectorate of the Coalition. This unwarranted violent action was instigated by a faction of genetically engineered creatures protesting the galaxy's laws against their kind, erroneously convinced that political discourse can be best accomplished through wanton bloodshed._

The blood drained from his cheeks. Stitch wanted to pull away, or to shove his claws through the receiver. End the terrible stream of words. Yet, the voice's current drew him in more deeply. He sat in a limbo of revulsion and curiosity.

 _The ringleader of this dangerous group is believed to be a being who, after his placement in a token exile by the United Galactic Federation, taunted the good people of our galaxy as he freely roamed, operating as an agent for the Federation's Council, his unsanctioned activity threatening billions of lives. His unchecked and uncontrollable temperament has now cost Seefyus dearly._

 _He is most well-known by the experiment designation number he was assigned at his creation: Six-Two-Six, though he operates under the alias Stitch. A more detailed description and photographs are available on our extranet portal, and on most local planetary networks. The blood of millions is on his hands. He is considered extremely dangerous. Do not approach him on your own. Do not underestimate him. Instead, if you have any information on the whereabouts of the suspect in this brutal slaughter, contact your nearest Coalition representative's office immediately. Help us bring justice to the people of Seefyus and the galaxy._

He stared in disbelief as the station restarted its soulful tune. His stomach bottomed out. Stitch collapsed into the chair, reeling from the announcement. His head swam—drowned.

The Pacific waves rolled over him. Sea foam littered the surface, dappling the scant light trickling down from above. He paddled six limbs, but still descended. Sunk into colder waters. Another wave passed by. Strings of kelp washed along the current. Bubbles escaped his lips, floated to freedom, to join its family above. _I want my family_. Limbs paddled, but the ocean dragged him down.

 _First my cousin…now them. How can they blame me?_ _Why blame me?_ Drowning.

The questions bubbled to the surface as he bounded from the dropship and burst into the control room. His misgivings about Reuben vanished as he found his goldenrod cousin sulking in a corner, idly tapping the deck.

"Cousin! Big problem!" he shouted at Reuben while skidding to a halt. His cousin's eyes stayed glued to the floor. Stitch demanded Reuben's attention. "Cousin, there big problem!"

"Great, I'm sure ya can handle it on yer own," he despondently answered. One of his claws slowly traced tight circles into the metal deck.

Stitch plopped down next to his cousin. He braced his back against the wall, jaw clenching, the words dammed behind his pride. The wall, with its cold and indifferent metal, did its best to soothe the smoldering dread inside him. The cold of deeper ocean waters stung. Began intruding into his lungs. _My admission will need to come sooner than I thought._

The dam broke. "Stitch is …no, I am sorry. You are my ` _ohana_. What I said before…I was stupid. An _ika patootie_. You have done a lot for me. For our family. It was not fair of me to say those things to you."

Reuben did not move a muscle. "No. It wasn't fair." Frozen to the ground, a furry statue replying to Stitch. "None of it was fair." The light filtering through the sea foam above was fading fast.

"I am sorry it took me so long to get you back. I did not know you were in such pain then…and now." The weight of shame dropped Stitch's head. Caught in his own maelstrom of anguish, Stitch had missed the suffering of his possibly-only living relative. Reuben's three years with Stitch and the rest of his ` _ohana_ meant much more than choices made long ago by a different Experiment. His cousin had grown and evolved, just like Stitch had done, to become something more than his genetic programming. _We are more alike than I thought._

"I should have known… because I feel the same way. I miss them too. It…it hurts." Stitch swallowed the lump in his throat. The seawater entered. Frigid and salty. _I miss them so much._ Another wave rolled across the surface. "But now others need us. I want to be good, like our ` _ohana_ taught me. That is how I can honor them. And they taught me we do not need to fight alone. You are my family. And I need you with me." A pleading smile followed.

An eternity passed. Both sat motionless. He hoped he had said enough. The light above was gone. Limbs stopped paddling in the brine. He sank, deeper into the cold and quiet waters.

Finally, Reuben clacked his claws against the floor. "Okay, cuz. Okay. If we gotta suffer, then we'll do it together. I mean, misery loves company, right?" He gave a breathy chuckle. Treacly warmth gently poured into his voice.

Up. He flew up, the light streaming through ocean. The surface shattered. And Stitch was on his back, on the beach. Waves broke behind his head. Spluttering, he gulped the salty air. They stood over him, shouting something. Anger. Fear. Love. _My family_.

"So what problem were you havin' that got ya flyin' in here?"

The beach disintegrated. Stitch shook himself, realizing he had lost track of what was so troubling. Some quick pondering, and it flooded back to him. Urgency resurfaced. "Need to find radio. Play you something—something on air-something bad," he rambled on the verge of coherency.

"Whoa, slow down, champ. What something?"

Stitch dragged his cousin by his good arm over to one of the forward consoles. He activated the galactic radio tuner and whizzed through the stations, searching for news. Settling on a broadcast from a world whose chief export was gossip, Stitch practically shoved Reuben into the speaker.

His cousin listened intently to the speech. His body drooped further as the announcement ran its course. "Oh man," Reuben commented as he shut off the radio. "You're right. This is bad. Not just for us, either."

That additional bit confused Stitch. "What do you mean by that?"

"Think about it, bud. We aren't the only genetic experiments in town. Sure, we're probably the most famous, but there are thousands, maybe hundreds'a thousands, of genetic experimentation subjects and artificial life forms livin' in the galaxy. When ya worked for the Federation, it took you a long time and a tonna work, but a lotta people ended up respectin' you. You showed them they didn't need to be afraid. You showed 'em empathy and compassion and understandin'. You gave them a good reason to at least start to trust ya and others like you. But after this..."

" _Naga_! I did nothing!" Stitch yelped. It was becoming quite exasperating to repeat that phrase.

"It doesn't matter! Rumors weigh a helluva lot more in peoples' minds than evidence does. If enough of 'em think yer a bloodthirsty and uncontrollable animal who nukes cities for fun, that credibility ya built for you and all the other artificial life forms will'a gone out the window. Some will probably see through this _bliznak_ , but honestly, they'll be a rare breed. With how many stupid people exist in this galaxy'a ours, how long do ya think it'll take 'em to turn on any genetic experiment, especially if they think it'll get 'em to _you_? They're all in danger now."

Stitch stopped to assess that point. Those secondary ramifications had not crossed his mind. _Maybe he was right. Maybe I do have a problem. They're all in danger because of me…._

Alarm rushed through Stitch. "What about Angel?"

"I dunno, bud. We have no clue where she is…or if she's even still alive."

Reuben's conjecture stung. Stitch had never considered that particular outcome. He simply _knew_ she was alive and out there, somewhere, waiting for him. To think otherwise… _naga_. And though he had not been her _boojiboo_ for some time, a sense of protective care nevertheless blossomed within Stitch. "We have to find her!" he shouted. "We have to find her now!"

"No, cuz, no way. They'll know that'll be one of our next plays. We can't tip our hand." Reuben was pacing around the room. "No, we need somethin' unexpected. And — though I've no idea who it'd even be — we can't involve anyone else. If these Coalition bastards catch wind of what we're up to, we're screwed. They'll sic everythin' they got on us."

Even with it being all outright lies, with the Coalition fabricating this horrid story, Stitch felt responsible for putting so many more lives in jeopardy, a thought that had his shoulders sagging. But he would not sit idly by and watch it all unfold. "Then what do we do now, cousin?"

Reuben stood quietly for a while. Stitch swore he could hear the cogs in his cousin's brain grind together as ideas formed, most of which usually toed the line between insanity and genius. "Well, we'll be _personae non gratae_ on pretty much any civilized planet in the galaxy. And we can't go back'ta Earth, they'll expect that…." His eyes lit up in the way they did when his ideas finally stormed across that line, oblivious to good reason and logic. "So where is the last place the Coalition would expect us to go?"

The gigantic grin on Stitch's face informed his cousin that he understood. _Brilliant!_ They approached the central console and pulled up several databanks. Some pushing and sliding, and they had laid in a course. A planet appeared on the display. Its name materialized beneath it. _Leehrra IV_.

Reuben primed the engines and ran all the pre-flight checks. Stitch milled about the room, standing clear of Reuben's hectic button-mashing. The thrill of a new direction brought a tremor to Stitch's body, tempered with a mild wave of nausea. The unknown worried him, but with his cousin now back at his side, his confidence was slowly gaining ground against the fear that ate at him.

Reuben yelled out, "Alright, cuz. I think we're ready. Let's hit it!"

A scratchy groan echoed around the room. The cousins could easily pinpoint the source. Reuben drew his hand back from the launch initiator. He joined Stitch as they both precariously tip-toed toward the containment cell in the rear. A pained dirge erupted from behind the bars. The two stuck their faces into the gaps and stared incredulously.

A ten-foot tall mass shuffled its frame across the floor and propped itself along the back wall, small grunts punctuating every effort. Its labored breathing sounded sickly. Yellowed eyes lulled as they fought for clarity. Gauzy membranes folded back and pupils dilated.

Gravelly tones sprang forth from its snarling lips. "Who…who are you?"

" _Choota_ , it's…alive," Reuben breathlessly spouted.

 _Alive._ Relief. He was not responsible for this being's demise. _I've kept my promise._

The relief morphed to terror as the creature found its voice. "Who are you!" it bellowed, the coarseness grating against Stitch's ears.

'Wait…" Reuben cautiously uttered. "Your helmet had a vocal translator chip installed in it, so it's the bit ya need ta communicate with us. How can we understand you?"

The creature pondered the question, then pointed a scaly finger at its horned temple. "Implant," it grumbled.

"So that means you've been listenin' fer a while, enough ta build up a rough vocabulary..." Reuben nodded his comprehension. "Alright then, since it seems like we can strike up a conversation, let's start with _your_ name."

A low hum from the underside of its throat permeated the cell as it tried to grapple with Reuben's demand. "Name…Shra-ryn."

"Okay then, _Shra-ryn_ ," Reuben struggled with the syllables. "Why don't ya tell us _what_ you are then?" Stitch eyed Reuben. Both of them had racked their brains during their journey on the origin of their captive. With its return to consciousness, the two of them planned to extract as much information as possible, starting with a species classification.

"No. Me...tell me. Who you are?" the creature awkwardly commanded. Stitch thought the translator may have been damaged by his rather well-executed punch.

"Nuh-uh." Reuben shook his head. "First things first. You tell us what you are."

"No," the creature truculently refused. "Who are you?"

"Look, pal. You're the one in the cage. You'll answer what I got for ya first, get it?"

"No! Who are you!" it bellowed. A rage that appeared to be sourced in some nondescript form of hatred and belligerency was seething beneath this creature's armor. Stitch set his foot back one step.

Reuben let out a little sigh. "Alright, looks like he's done bein' helpful. Cuz, go ahead and fire up the hyperdrive." He pressed his face against the bar and stared intensely into the creature's yellowed eyes. "I'll get to work on _Shra-ryn_ here." Reuben savored scrumptious malice with a wicked grin.

As Stitch wandered to the central console to run the final checks again, he could hear Reuben taunt their prisoner. "See this? That's nothin' compared to what I will unleash upon you. Yer friends did a number on me. I plan ta return the favor." Stitch caught his cousin waving his broken arm at the prisoner. The limb had regained a surprising amount of mobility. Stitch wondered if it were nearly healed by now. _I hope that's not his best threat_ , Stitch almost said aloud.

Mild amusement at his cousin's rant quickly shifted to unease as Reuben continued to berate the creature. He oftentimes believed Reuben to be the more rational one in their partnership. His mellow attitude hid a genius, one who applied cold logic to scenarios. Stitch recognized that recent events had broken his cousin's body and had rattled his demeanor, as their spat on the dropship had revealed. Yet beholding Reuben's psyche on the doorstep of totally unraveling struck Stitch like terrifying lightning.

Stitch activated the hyperdrive. From his spot next to the console, he watched as Reuben approached the cell door and pried open the lock. Knowing what would come next and discontented not to interfere with it, Stitch spoke up.

"Wait, cousin," Stitch shouted after him. "Is this good idea—"

Humiliation and degradation roiled behind Reuben's eyes as he whipped around to spear his cousin with his stare. _He's more than rattled_ , Stitch belatedly opined. Lightning intensified into a full-blown tempest that whipped up a furious gale around Stitch. No matter how much effort he imparted, he could not break from Reuben's eyes, through which Stitch could see his cousin's mind separate and shatter. Pain — not simple physical pain, but a consuming and omnipresent pain — manifested in Reuben's balled fists and the small tremors of tensed muscles. His countenance assumed the stony gravity of agony embodied. Molten despair oozed from his mouth, slathering each word in determined and dangerous purpose. "I said I will work on him. I will handle this."

Stitch reluctantly nodded and averted his gaze. _Is this how I looked before…before Lilo?_ The trepidation many had displayed when Stitch was introduced to the galaxy used to puzzle him. The ensuing years had graced Stitch with greater insight into the reasons why many had feared him. Yet, his destructive tendencies that had frightened so many had been caused by programming, not pain. He had been battling nigh-insufferable pain since abandoning Earth, but had not reverted to his old inclinations. As he watched his cousin in the cell with the guard, though, he wondered what his own threshold would be before he relapsed. _Could I do what my cousin is doing?_

He denied answering and instead busied himself with maintenance. Hoarse shrieks echoed from the dim corner. Waves crashed above his head. He paddled.

#


	29. Chapter 28 - Certainty in His Being

_The Fire of Futures Past_

 _Chapter 28_

 _Certainty in His Being_

The events of the preceding few hours were misted as Gantu stirred from fitful slumber. A throbbing headache had manifested near his temple as he opened his eyes to the soft light of the room's dawn setting. Massaging the afflicted region provided no relief. He breathed deeply, and the air burned his throat.

"Admiral?" his communicator painfully chirped.

"Ye—"he coughed. Smacking parched lips, he ventured another go. "Yes?"

"We've arrived in the Khaestym System, sir. Awaiting your orders."

"Very good. I will be on the bridge shortly," he managed. Blunt throbs had given way to sharp jabs in his head. The very act of rising from his desk compounded their attacks. He lazily slid back into his savory plush chair.

"Mhm," he grumbled. As consciousness was restored, he reflected on the source of his current ailment. Having tasked himself with a mission of identifying Te'sudu's evening companion, he had landed at the bar in the shipboard club, The Galley. Gantu had heard fellow crew members excitedly discuss their evening plans for The Galley, and he had until that very moment been utterly confused as to why the ship's kitchen would bring such joy. The bartender recognized his newest guest and planted a bottle of Turan brandy at his spot, "Compliments of the crew" his genial voice had offered. Not one to eschew such a fine gift, Gantu had enjoyed it, more cheerfully so the emptier the bottle became. His resting place, he concluded, must have been the desk, for he had awoken, still in uniform, splayed out over the rich table. Intricately carved geometric patterns had greeted his eyes.

The ancient Turan crown molding that adorned the corridors of the capitol building had also possessed some intricate geometric patterns. Ancient Turans had most notably obsessed over circles. The pursuit of the perfect circle, in fact, had been the root of many old fables — episodic storytelling, plots coming full circle, roundabout ways for protagonists to reach their goals. At this moment, Admiral Gantu's goal had been his room, and he followed those circles on the wall in as straight a path as he could manage.

The evening with Toobihya and company had indeed improved as more drink trays had arrived to their table. Food had been a distant memory, a distraction from the real business to be conducted under the smoky light. The date Toobihya had brought never asked again about the Experiments, but Gantu would catch a twinkle glistening in her eye whenever she looked his way, a reminder that unanswered questions would linger for the entirety of their time together.

That twinkle also reminded Gantu of his solitude at the small party. The seat next to him had remained bare, even as Toobihya and the woman had delivered their parting pleasantries and tottered off, most likely back to his spacious quarters courtesy of his Admiralty posting. Gantu would eventually join his compatriot in that particular wing of the capitol, but for now, his humble suite would do.

As he neared the door, though, an outline of someone began to materialize. He blinked furiously in an effort to ensure the image was true. When the figure stayed, his blood started pumping vigorously. He had not expected any visitors at this hour. Plus, though his appointment to the Admiralty had yet to be made official, many had already taken it upon themselves to voice their particular displeasures at such an honor for Gantu, and he wondered how many would be ready to act on their issues. His hand instinctively reached down and patted his pistol's grip. As cautiously as he could, Gantu ambled up to the door.

"Ah, Captain, good. I was beginning to worry you would not return this evening."

Her unmistakable contralto had him shifting his hand off his pistol. But his blood still pumped. "Grand Councilwoman. I…did not expect you to be…around."

The contralto was suddenly apologetic. "I am so sorry, I did not mean to leave you at that dinner alone. I was…called away for…."

"It's fine. You do not need an excuse."

"No, no, I…" she fell into a silence that clung for far too long in the corridor. She cleared her throat. "I hope Admiral Toobihya did not wear you out too much."

Gantu extended a hand to steady himself against the wall. The smooth metal chilled his heated palm. "He could only dream."

She laughed. Genuine. Warm. He shuddered just a bit. He hoped she hadn't noticed. "Very well then. That means you're fine for one more?" From behind her back, she produced two pristinely clear crystal tumblers, which clattered as they touched, and a decanter in which a tan liquid sloshed.

"Of course."

"Excellent. I settled on the perfect location, if you are comfortable with a short walk?"

Gantu had given the clearest acceptance he could muster. The last tray from dinner had finally settled, unleashing its full potency in his gut. His faculties had not entirely fled him, but he needed more assistance from the wall than he cared to admit. She did not seem to mind as she walked alongside, softly humming a tune Gantu did not recognize. Or maybe he did, and the name simply escaped him at present.

Their walk was indeed short. Soon, they stood outside on their floor's balcony. The wind carried the mélange of scents and sounds of the city that fanned out beneath them, all cloaked under a blanket of Turan stars. Only a few twinkled in the sky, many more hidden away by the lights radiating from a bustling metropolis.

She set down the wares on a wrought iron table and drew together two rough-looking but surprisingly accommodating chairs. When she beckoned, he sat down in one chair with a rather obvious plop. Her laugh softened the blow.

He stared out over the city as she poured out two measures into the tumblers. Skycars whizzed by, their collective turbulence generating a slightly stronger gust than Gantu anticipated. He squinted in the cool yet inviting urban air.

"Here," she offered. He took the drink. The powerful concoction wafted up to his nose. He grumbled as thoughts of more imbibing hit him all at once.

She raised her glass. He followed suit. "A toast," she said. "To the warriors of the Federation. The admirals who keep her safe, and look good while doing it."

He downed the drink in a single gulp. "Not an admiral yet, ma'am."

She chose to sip and savor the incredibly rare blend contained within that decanter — so unlike the typical swill most Turans choked down. She swirled the tumbler in her elegant hand as she spoke. "Oh, soon enough you will be, Gantu. That process is already in motion." A breathy pause, then, "I really do wish I had been there. I have only heard of Toobihya's…gatherings from secondhand sources."

Gantu inhaled deeply as the drink added its effect to the larger group battling his stomach's fortitude. "I don't know. Perhaps it was for the best. I was not in the greatest of moods."

"Oh?"

He twisted in his chair, and found her eyes. Obsidian pools reflected the few stars strong enough to cut through the city's myriad lights. "One of Toobihya's companions was… _curious_ about the…."

Automatically, cognizance registered in her eyes. "Ah, yes, naturally. You are the most familiar with them of anyone around here, I would imagine."

"But every time! Every time I go anywhere, it's always the same! Questions about those _Abominations_ and their ilk, it just—"

"Perhaps, Gantu," she interceded, "we shouldn't delve into that topic again tonight?"

His cheeks flushed. "Yes, I…I don't want to, ehm, spoil, anything."

She laughed again. Still as warm as ever, even in the cooling city breeze. So unlike the austere figure who presided over the Federation and all of its business. "It's quite alright. You're a passionate individual, Gantu. I _like_ that about you." She then buried her face in the tumbler.

Gantu thumbed the edge of his glass. It emitted a dull ring that rose into the city air and disappeared in the cacophony. This city, this planet, all reminded him of everything he had missed on his long journey. Kaua'i nights were equally noisy, but that island's air had been filled with insect chirps and the brushing of palms' fronds against their roughhewn trunks. And the noxious laughs of little beasts that did not belong.

"Is…" he ventured as she slowly and luxuriously raised her head from the exquisite Turan brandy, "…is that why I'm going to be an admiral? Because you _like_ me?"

He knew he had committed a grievous error in judgment the moment he had opened his mouth. Maybe Toobihya's insistence on more drink trays was now coming back to haunt the captain. Though, he had never quite grasped the nuances of these types of interactions. They eluded him, utterly and completely. He could not shoot at it, nor sic attack vessels upon it. A life consumed by battle, and he was losing this eminently important one through his own ineptitude.

What remained of the brandy nearly bounced over the rim as she slammed down her tumbler. The austerity of the Federation's leader flickered again in obsidian eyes. Suddenly, Gantu found himself wishing he had simply turned in for the night.

"Captain, I—"

A knock at the door brought his head out of the chair and the memory. The raps were akin to gunfire cracking within his skull. He growled as he acclimated to reality. "Come in!" he crabbily commanded.

Te'sudu jovially strode into the space, also still dressed in the previous night's garb. A spryness conspicuously absent during most of Gantu's interactions with Te'sudu had invaded the pilot's demeanor. " _Admiral_ , how are you this fine morning?"

His excited tone was torture for the afflicted admiral. Gantu held up a hand as a tacit plea for quieter conversation. "Just great, Te'sudu. What can I do for you?"

Te'sudu's face twisted in confusion. "You asked me to come by to discuss our mission to Seefyus? I would've come last night, but you were rather firmly planted in The Galley when my date and I decided to leave. In fact, you came over to our table and demanded we wait until morning. Several times, if memory serves."

"Um, ah yes, that's— ahem— that's right." Te'sudu stood quietly, allowing Gantu to graciously save face. Gantu collected his scattered thoughts. "I, uh, hope your date didn't mind."

"Oh no, not at all! She thought you to be—how'd she put it? Oh yes—perfectly pleasant."

Gantu fought against the haze in his mind to extract the image of Te'sudu's date. His main objective had been to discover her identity, and from Te'sudu's report, it appeared likely that he had completed it. Now, he could barely restrain the urge to slap himself on the head as punishment for thwarting his own mission. Judging from Te'sudu's stance, however, Gantu also confidently posited he would get another chance.

The throbbing started up again. He cradled his aching head in one hand as he addressed the pilot. "Good to hear. Now, to the matter at hand. I intend to look into what actually happened with the city of Pthlonia on Seefyus, but with Coalition patrols above the planet, bringing the Federation's greatest warship to bear on Seefyus would be…unwise."

"I agree, sir."

"Right, good. So the Seefyus System's next-door neighbor, Khaestym, will be our staging point. Far enough to stay off their scanners, but close enough to launch hyperdrive-capable dropships in short order. We'll paint 'em a different color and alter the hull markings as well as the IFF transponders to denote the vessels as property of a charitable aid organization. That'll give us freer reign to scout about the area for information."

"Okay, gotcha, I… wait, the ships will be masquerading as charitable aid?"

"Correct."

Te'sudu skeptically pursed his lips. "Well, what happens if they discover we're not there to help out? Unless you're plannin' on stocking them with a bunch of Federation food and water, it could be a hard bluff to sell. And what about actual aid organizations? If the Seefyan guards figure this out, won't their government initiate a crackdown on aid? Those people in the city need that help—"

"Whoa, slow down…" Gantu commanded as his headache dug its claws into his forehead. "You're thinking too far ahead."

"No…no, I'm thinking just the right amount about this. If we screw this up, _no_ actual aid organization will be able to land. People who need aid aren't gonna get it. Isn't there another way we can get on the planet? Can't we just go in stealthily or somethin'?"

"No can do. We'll need access to ground zero and the surrounding area. The Coalition will most likely have locked down the region. Other than posing as their own military — and besides me, I don't think anyone else aboard this ship would fit the height requirement for a Skallyraath — an aid organization is really going to be the only option."

Gantu did not enjoy having to deliver this particular argument, made worse by his involving the warrant officer. Te'sudu was right in many regards, Gantu thought. Yet, the thought of that crater on Seefyus…the admiral needed to know. And so it came to Gantu's great relief when Te'sudu's scrunched face eased a tad as his reticence thawed and dripped down his forehead in the form of several monstrous beads of sweat. "Alright. I'm not entirely sold on it…but you're right. It's the best we got. So when do we fly?"

"Hold on, Te'sudu. Now, I want to go and investigate it myself, but I don't want to leave the _Adesa_ unattended while I dig around there. I need you to manage the affairs here while I figure out just what the hell happened."

Te'sudu brought a contemplative finger to his chin. "Right, okay. I can do that…but one little problem."

Adrenaline pumped through Gantu's body. His head leapt from his hand. The suggestion of a missing component alarmed him. "What's that?"

Te'sudu walked up to Gantu's desk. His eyes barely rose above its lip. "Size, sir."

"Size?" Gantu inquired.

"Don't take this the wrong way, sir. But people listen to you because you're…well, you're you." He motioned at Gantu's frame while he talked. "I am not you. And we still aren't sure who's working for whom, so there's a good chance something could go awry. If it did, and you were gone…I don't think I could stop it in time."

That contingency had slipped Gantu's contemplation. He growled for several seconds. "I _hate_ it when you're right…"

"Well, then, you're gonna hate me more, because I have a solution."

"Let's hear it then." Gantu's head rolled back into his cradling hand. _I wonder if he would notice if I fell asleep like this._ The fog of the evening clung to him more stringently as Te'sudu continued.

"Send me to Seefyus. Give me a team if you want, make it look official…hell, they may even buy that charitable aid bit. I'll look for what you need, and report my findings back to you and only you. You can stay up here and keep control of the _Adesa_. Should keep any conspirators at bay for a while longer."

Relief and paranoia mixed into an odd slush in Gantu's brain. _Someone who is eager to help out, who I can trust. That's perfect_. Gantu also sensed his locus of control shifting, and that terrified him. _What if he misses something? What if the team I send with him harm him? What if he isn't as trustworthy as he appears?_ Nagging nuisances fed the cloud expanding in his head.

"Are you sure you can—"

"Absolutely, sir. I won't let you down."

His conviction accomplished the difficult feat of impressing Gantu. The zephyr of zeal briefly blew away his fog, and through cleared sight, he saw the intelligence in trusting Te'sudu. _No, he won't let me down._

"Alright then, Te'sudu. Suit up — but nothing with Federation markings — and be ready for drop in one hour. I'll scramble a team together."

"Aye, Admiral." He saluted and turned to exit. A slight hesitation in his step announced an additional comment. "Oh, Admiral? One request. Please don't put my date on the team."

Gantu's tongue stumbled in much the same way his body had done the night before. "Oh, uh, sure, I-I can do that, Te'sudu."

"You have no idea who she is, do you, Admiral?" Te'sudu said with a mischievous smirk.

Gantu froze. The fog descended with a vengeance. "Um…."

Te'sudu erupted into hearty laughter. "It's fine, Admiral. And that was a joke. Put whoever you want on the team. I'll reintroduce you to her sometime soon. Don't worry—I'll come up with a good cover story for ya." With that assurance made, he exited the office.

Embarrassment flooded Gantu's cheeks. Te'sudu's joke at his expense infuriated him, but he knew he had invited it upon himself. _I'll need to lay off the brandy for a while_ , he admonished. He buried his burning face in the computer console to piece together a suitable team for Te'sudu.

Spurred on by his earlier thought of a restorative nap, he rapidly scanned the active duty roster and assembled an eight-person team to escort the pilot. They were all names that were familiar from reports on meritorious service or recommendations from superiors. A quick probe into their financial records and backgrounds — information readily available to the highest ranking officers on board Federation ships, though the data were occasionally obtained through questionable means — offered no evidence to contradict their loyalty. He messaged them all, informing them of their upcoming mission for which they had been involuntarily selected. All accepted.

"There, that wasn't so hard," Gantu congratulated himself as his head slowly sank back onto the desk. "Time to take a break."

The door chimed again. A loud groan, then, "Yes, enter."

Te'sudu had returned, with more concern in his eyes. "I...almost forgot, sir…how have you been holding up?"

Gantu was perplexed. _A check on my well-being?_ With a tentative voice, he replied, "Fine, Te'sudu."

"Oh okay, sir. I just…I know you had a special relationship with her, and the news seemed to hit you pretty hard when it broke late last night—"

"What news?" Gantu interrupted, alarm rising. The fog had dissipated on its own, a fearful instinct activating in his mind. Adrenaline flooded his veins — he could barely keep from hopping over the desk. "What news, Te'sudu?"

Te'sudu's concern congealed into shock. "You…you really _don't_ remember? Geez, Admiral, you should lay off the juice for a bit—"

" _Te'sudu!_ "

The Warrant Officer sighed and slouched his shoulders, the weight of the information apparent. A few steps forward, then he settled into a spot two arms' length from Gantu's quivering form. "It was all over the media. They're still trying to figure it out, the pieces aren't all there. But…it's looking like suicide…they don't know why, no note…" Te'sudu couldn't bring himself to finish.

The deep chasm of fear in Gantu's gut widened. Everything sunk into the abyss. He almost knew what to expect next. "Who, Te'sudu?"

In three quick strides, Te'sudu closed the gap. He tapped at Gantu's computer, wiping away windows of technical data and mission strategies, all while wiping his eyes with a crumpled handkerchief. Eventually, after an agonizing journey, he arrived at a galactic news site's front page. He slammed a finger almost through the screen, against Gantu's weak protest. The admiral leaned in and read the headline. And every letter thereafter.

"…I'm sorry, sir, I thought you remembered this…I'm going to leave now. If you need anything, just…."

On many occasions, Admiral Gantu could be easily flustered. Questioned about losing an experiment, explaining his feelings toward them, anything like that usually would have him stuttering. Fumbling around to construct a cogent argument. But no matter what — even if it was a simple, guttural, stupid sound —Admiral Gantu always spoke. There was invariably something he could offer.

But in the captain's quarters, a place he didn't really want to be, in a ship sailing toward a place that he didn't really want to go to, he said nothing. A blank stare as he finished the article, only remembering fragments. _A seasoned politician. A bringer of peace. The galaxy will sorely miss her. Apparent suicide by plasma pistol. No explanation. Will be sorely missed. Missed._

"Captain, I—I…I think it's…a little more complex than that." The flash of anger extinguished, she tilted her head back and drained the tumbler. Her other hand teasingly tapped the glass stopper plugged into the decanter.

"But it's a part of it, right?" Gantu grumbled, his empty glass ringing with the vibrations of his deep voice.

She kept her head back and hummed as a gust of urban wind enwrapped them in the sensations of the city. Her obsidian eyes shuttered to the world, she inhaled, and brought forth a wistfully curled smile that wrinkled her azure cheeks. "It really is complex, Gantu. I've…so many responsibilities, all calling for my attention. Running this galaxy is a feat of incredible balance. My profession…my duty, it obligates me to…." Silence rose in the falling wind.

Gantu was unsure how to pivot on her response. A range of possibilities opened up in his strategically-focused mind. Options and tactics laid themselves out. And they all _felt_ wrong. Having nothing to say was not Gantu's way, but as he sat under the Turan stars and studied every crease and dimple on her face, words — sounds, even — completely eluded him.

"Gantu," his name buoyant in her contralto, "you are unique. Someone who is wholeheartedly, unswervingly, truly dedicated to the preservation of this galaxy. Just like me. That's…something I admire, that I…." Flustered, she uncorked the decanter. Exquisite hints of chalkwood smoke and spices gathered from the farthest reaches of the galaxy drifted from the ludicrously costly brandy as she poured herself another measure. "I think that the nature of our positions make it difficult to act _fully_ on our thoughts, our…desires." A careful sip. "So many things to think about. Wouldn't you agree?"

Flummoxed gurgling was all Gantu could manage. His mind raced. _Where's Toobihya when I need him? He'd know what to say._ She waited, much more patiently than he would have. The brandy no doubt helped. Another controlled sip. Considered, planned, executed by the book. So very much like her.

"Well…" sounds summoned from nowhere finally stumbled their way out of Gantu's mouth. "Maybe, if we were _not_ so…preoccupied, with these political affairs, the matters of this galaxy, then it would be…."

"Better?"

Her eyes glittered in the neon and halide and fluorescent and starlight. Enrapturing, as Gantu leaned closer. The sound of her breath, controlled, measured, but elevated. Excited. "Yes. Better." More confident. Stronger.

"And how would we do that, Gantu? You and I…we both need the politics. The battles."

"Do we?"

The great chasm between two simple chairs was narrowing. A few of the myriad stars of a galaxy scintillated overhead.

"Without all of that…who would we be?"

The city, the galaxy, the brandy, the worries, the fears, all fell away. Washed out by the rising wind. Her eyes glittered. A point of light became thousands as the gap closed. A galaxy reflected in obsidian pools. A little gasp, soft and warm, filled the air.

Certainty in his voice. In his being. "We…we would be better."

The stars disappeared with his doubt as his world irrevocably changed.

And now, far away from the balcony bathed in city and celestial lights, his world irrevocably changed again. The pale glow of the computer screen, an ugly substitute for that beauty, cast deepening shadows over the admiral. Te'sudu still stood by, wordlessly watching.

Gantu read it. The headline again. For certainty.

 _Grand Councilwoman of United Galactic Federation found dead, apparent suicide._

Te'sudu had nearly crossed the threshold into the hallway when Gantu opened his mouth. A sad sound fell out. Confusion in his voice. In his being. "Te'sudu…don't leave just yet…." Nothing sure about it.

"I'll be right outside, sir. Take your time."

The door closed. Alone in the soft light of the room's dawn setting. Certainty of solitude in his being. Admiral Gantu shattered.

#


	30. Chapter 29 - A Lone Speck

**_A/N:_** **Recently, I haven't been able to spend as much time as I'd like on writing my fics, including this one. For my other fics, I've decided to try out making more regular updates that consist of smaller parts of each chapter. For example, I'll continually update the upcoming chapter in "Fire of Futures Past" as I finish smaller pieces of it.**

 **For this story, the chapters tend to be shorter already, so I will keep working to make posts whenever I can.**

 **Thank you for reading, and please feel free to send me feedback!**

 **Best ~ Euphonemes**

* * *

 _Where Angel Fears to Tread_

 _Chapter 29_

 _A Lone Speck_

His unenviable list of tasks nearly a quarter complete, Praetor Ga'lean thought it a proper time for a break. He dragged his exhausted body into his cabin. The unassuming bed, fitting for the sparse décor of his cramped living quarters, beckoned to him from the corner. It felt luxurious to his sore muscles. His feathery coat had lost some of its sheen, as had his normally penetrating golden eyes. The scent of sterilized metal hung heavy around him despite his best efforts to dirty up the place.

Ga'lean checked the clock embedded in the wall. He realized the Chancellor would be arriving shortly. _Yet there's always time for a quick nap_ , he mused. Ga'lean slipped into a trance and let his mind wander.

He stood at the outskirts of a town on the planet Seefyus. His obsidian armor devoured the evening sunrays, spurring him to run for shade. The paint of the silver cross of the Neutralists flaked from his breastplate. Ga'lean reached an awning and graciously threw himself into its umbra.

He had mustered out of the UGF military almost two years before, but he had not adjusted well to civilian life. An enterprising group of former soldiers had discovered him face-down on a bar top, his normal victory pose after winning mighty battles against stubborn bottles of Seefyan firewater. They introduced themselves as the Neutralists, an appropriate name for mercenaries.

His initial reluctance to undertake the group's quasi-legal jobs disappeared after the first and quite substantial paycheck. Sadly for Ga'lean and his wallet, the honeymoon abruptly ended when the galactic markets reached their nadir in the wake of The Great Shock. His organization's now-parsimonious clientele could no longer foot the Neutralists' bills. While Ga'lean's work with the organization was legend, the reality of payroll required the termination of his employment. The sudden wealth from successful jobs dissipated like morning fog in the marshes of his home world. Soon, he was struggling for victuals which, given the meager financial requirements for survival that Seefyus posed, did not bode well for his immediate future.

Frustrated and hungry, he had set out into town as the day was ending to scavenge for a meal to recharge his flagging energy. The pale blue moon had risen as backdrop for a boisterous group of protesters crowded around a low-rising dais set in the town's center. Empty skyscrapers, crumbling from disrepair, lined the perimeter — the testament of a long-passed era. One voice carried over the din and pawed at his tired body. His mind held steady, though his curiosity was piqued. He ventured into the mob to listen to a strange creature proselytize.

A large stage complete with a banner reading "The People Have Spoken!" came into view. Atop that stage, a figure completely obscured with a billowing cloak projected its voice across the swarm of heads all nodding assent in unison. Its harsh and raspy tones first grated on Ga'lean's mind, yet as the cloaked form barked its diatribe, its words enveloped him and breached his thoughts. An invisible force drew him into the fold, hooked him, and left him begging for more. He would etch every word in vivid detail into his memory.

 _Good people of Seefyus, I come to you tonight not as victor or conqueror, but as liberator! You have been held back by the cruel machinations of a galactic federation hell-bent on ignoring your pleas and desecrating your world. Tonight, we shall throw off that yoke and take back control of our destiny!_

 _Those of the United Galactic Federation claim they serve you. Yet we watch as they serve themselves first! The Federation's Council rapaciously seizes more and more from us, the hardworking citizens of this galaxy. They expect us to play content when they toss us the scraps. The debasement of their so-called constituency is deplorable — an outrage! They care only in guarding their own pathetic and withered inner circle, while happily pitching us like refuse to the dump!_

 _And you, the citizens of this great planet, you have seen more than most. You have served as host to corporate parasites that ravaged your world with their experiments at the behest of the Federation's Council. You have experienced the horrific consequences of failed regulation and protection. You deserved better. And you gave them your votes and your hard-earned credits with the promise of a better tomorrow._

 _And how were you repaid? They violated the laws that they enacted to prevent it from happening again, the laws meant to prevent your world from slipping on its ascent back to glory. Absolute laws indeed! But one breach of your sacred trust was not enough. Their specious exile of The Abomination further insulted the history of Seefyus. And their plan to use him to their own devices, as a sycophant to their whims, degrades the memories of your past. This Abomination will serve as a despicable agent for a bloated and ailing government, and it will bring further ruin to them — mark my words on this, good people._

 _And much as they pay no heed to their own hollow laws, they care not for their rampant destruction of the galactic economy. We have felt the rumblings of The Great Shock. We have seen the effects of their meddling in planetary affairs — our affairs. The Federation promised us the freedom to operate as we see fit. We give them the power to govern, and they twist it to engorge themselves on our wealth. They've torn apart once thriving interplanetary economies and left us destitute while the Council, through the pretenses of the United Galactic Federation, fatten themselves off of our labors. Their invasion of our livelihoods has stolen them from us! The tyranny of the Council and its emperor, the Grand Councilwoman, must end!_

 _Tonight… tonight dear friends, we shake off the subjugating bonds of the United Galactic Empire! Our party will do what the Council will not — care for the citizens! Seefyus, you have taken the first steps of a great journey with us. You will help us take back our galaxy and restore the order it desperately needs! We will be liberated from the Federation's oppression! Tonight, you take back your destiny!_

Ga'lean would learn much later that the Chancellor was elevated to his current posting mere days after delivering that address. The landslide popular victory in Seefyus had indeed proven to be a turning point for the Coalition. The Chancellor's words rang out in his mind as strongly as they had the first time. And he remembered that the buzz from the speech had taken weeks to wear off. But it inevitably did. And the craving for more had taken hold.

Aimless wandering in a haze of unwanted sobriety eventually led him to the feet of the Chancellor. His beak clacked in pitiful pleas to take up arms alongside his idol and to cleanse the galaxy of its oppressors. In his avuncular style, the Chancellor had not seemed moved by Ga'lean's histrionics, but did make plans to incorporate Ga'lean's talents into Tactical Operations — a fledgling wing of the Coalition whose purview included the use of more aggressive measures to accomplish ends.

 _And here I lay now._ He absentmindedly fondled the edge of his mattress, ruminating on his good fortune.

His pocket chirped. He fumbled for the communicator. "Praetor, the Chancellor is making his final approach," the attendant's voice spilled out of the disk.

"Mhm, good, thank you," Ga'lean grumbled. He clasped the device between talons for a few moments more as he roused himself. "What I wouldn't give for some of that Seefyan firewater…" he mumbled to the ceiling. As he alighted from bed, an unexpected clank resounded. In his haste to repose, Ga'lean had not stripped off his armor. He ran his hand over the Coalition insignia emblazoned on his stark white breastplate. Resolve annealed as he crossed the threshold into the expansive main causeway. Lustrous gold gleamed in his eyes. _This is where I belong._

He repeated the mantra down the hallways of the _Chantana_ , all the way to the docking bay. Two lines of soldiers flanking the bay formed a channel for the passage of one creature. Ga'lean found his mark and stood fitfully at the outlet, awaiting the arrival of their honored guest. A quick spit-shine restored the glimmer to his armor. His golden eyes glittered under the bay lights.

Though Ga'lean's list was far from complete, the _Chantana_ had undergone significant preparations for the Chancellor's tour. The typical fanfare and propaganda had been hung loosely from the rafters and girders throughout the vessel. Teams of soldiers had calibrated every shipboard weapon with pristine accuracy. The drive cores hummed softly through the walls. _She's worthy_ , Ga'lean had commended his crew throughout the preparation process. _Let us pray the Chancellor agrees_ , he now fretted _._

The shuttlecraft reposed in its station for some time before its side hatch popped open. In his trademark flowing robes, the Chancellor emerged into the bay, prompting the soldiers to attention. He wordlessly skimmed atop the deck until he was within arm's reach of Ga'lean.

Praetor Horush Ga'lean initiated a deep and respectful bow. "High Chancellor," he rumbled in his rich baritone.

A jocular embrace surprised the Praetor.

"Praetor, how glad I am to see you! You look well!" the Chancellor joyously complimented.

Ga'lean was awed into silence. Certainly, the Chancellor had never been demure by any standard. Despite his raspy voice — the full mental effects of which still eluded Ga'lean — the Chancellor had always clearly possessed a certain warmth of spirit necessary for successful politicians. But to see that spirit displayed so prominently left the Praetor without words.

The Chancellor's levity carried through their walk out of the docking bay. "Why so silent, Ga'lean? You should be proud. The _Chantana_ is at her finest!" He gestured energetically as he spoke.

Ga'lean nodded solemnly.

"Ah, Ga'lean, so proper. So humble, even. Where would we be without your impressive leadership?"

"I could much say the same for you, Chancellor."

"Aha, he speaks! Very good, Praetor, very good. How fares this vessel?"

"She is ready, Chancellor."

The Chancellor lazily trailed a thin and bony hand along the inner wall as they directed themselves toward the bridge. A deep sigh passed from the dark ovoid of his hooded face. "She is a fine ship, indeed. I shall take great pride in being her guest as we begin our campaign anew."

"Anew?"

"Correct. Praetor, the Coalition is not unlike a seedling. It forms strong roots, digs deep into the ground," the Chancellor illustrated with his bony hands. "It spreads itself out, gathering resources, until it is ready to fully germinate. To sprout forth from the dirt!" he flourished with an upward thrust. "And bask in the light of a new day. Now, after what transpired on Seefyus, _now_ is the time, Praetor. The time to prepare for the sprout to _emerge_."

The Seefyan sun heated his chest. The dry air sapped his strength. Air now tainted by death. A decision out of his talons, no control, no choice. Yet, Ga'lean's eyes dragged along the walkway. Confusion simmered in his gut. His baritone was flattened. "I see."

"Oh, come now, Ga'lean! There is much more work to be done, yes, but now is time for celebration!" The Chancellor prodded Ga'lean's armor in an attempt to coax more conversation from him, but the Praetor steadfastly refused to humor further exchange. The two strolled together in pensive quiet.

As they entered the bridge, the Chancellor gently took hold of Ga'lean's arm. "Praetor, there's something I need you to do. Something vital to the achievement of our goals."

Ga'lean bowed his head. "Whatever you require of me, Chancellor."

"Excellent," the Chancellor released his servant. "I ask that you take a Tactical Operations team to the surface of my beloved Leehrra. There's an installation that must be protected. It contains sensitive information that we have yet to fully transfer to the _Chantana_. You and your team will watch over the process as it completes. Can you do this for me?"

For the second time in recent memory, Ga'lean's attitude shifted as the cries of marginalization and wasted potential bore down upon his typically calm persona. _Now! Tell him how you feel!_ Ga'lean's mind screamed the order at his non-compliant mouth. He lowered his head. "Chancellor…I…"

A thin and bony hand rested upon his shoulder. Serenity's glow cut through his heavy armor. Relaxed him.

"Praetor, I would not ask this of you if it were not _imperative_. You are my most trusted soldier. I would not waste your time or your prowess."

The Praetor glanced at the hand on his shoulder, but his head did not rise. Piercing golden eyes locked onto the single impurity visible in the walkway flooring material. A lone speck of black among the gray. Stand-out. Unique. Reviled by the gray around it. He shuddered.

"Do you remember," the Chancellor continued, "when you found me on Seefyus?" He slid his hand back into the robe and began to slowly circle around Ga'lean. Nostalgia turned the Praetor's stomach as Seefyus crept back into his mind. Flailing on the dusty floor of the murky room, prostrate. _A tool_. _That is all I am._ He had begged.

"The pain you carried in your eyes…it wasn't the angst of battle or the tinge of heartbreak. No, I recognized it immediately as the dulled glimmer of entombed potential. Of infectious inadequacy. Of a beast tamed by banality."

The Chancellor, dispassionate yet alive, had reached down. Down into the dirt and dust. Down to a creature trapped by tedium. Blue hand on burnt umber. _You are so much more._

"That you could not ply your trade, your born purpose…a pitiable waste of greatness. But I saw it. I saw the hope that rested in you. A fire blazed behind those golden eyes. I unlatched the cage, and you unleashed the beast within…you have made me infinitely proud, Ga'lean."

Strength had returned. He had stood. The shroud of dust had fallen away. Golden eyes had pierced that black veil. He had seen.

Ga'lean raised his head. The Chancellor hovered before him, cloak spilling and ebbing as it had in the murky room in a Seefyan hovel many moons ago. "Thank you, High Chancellor."

"Of course, Ga'lean. It is praise you unequivocally deserve. And now I must ask that you unleash that beast again. I know this trip may seem frightfully boring. Trust me, though, when I say you will not be disappointed."

Rekindled flame flared within the Praetor. He remembered the crate that had been delivered. The Chancellor had kept his oath then. _Yes, he is right._ "Yes, Chancellor. I shall do as you ask."

A clap sent shockwaves across the cloak. "Marvelous! Go prepare your team, Praetor. I shall inform your executive officer that he is to manage the bridge operations for now."

His feathers sheened as Ga'lean bowed and made a graceful exit. The docking bay would still contain the two lines of soldiers from earlier, who represented the finest of the Tactical Operations unit. He radioed ahead to prepare for planetfall.

Ga'lean finally cracked a smile. _Let us see what the Chancellor has in store this time_.

#


End file.
